


The Bones That You're Made Of

by isnt (noneedforhystereks)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Fraternities & Sororities, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, Stiles sleeps around, fratty!stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/isnt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not trying to reverse-psychology-mindfuck you into subliminally wanting to pursue a fucking Romeo-Julian, frat-crossed-lovers romance here. So listen to me when I tell you: hell-to-the-fucking-no.”</p><p>“Cora—”</p><p>“No,” she cuts Derek off again before he can even deny anything. His mouth is still open in his aborted attempt at a retort.</p><p>“He will chew you up and spit you out, like he has with hundreds of other aspiring young ladies and dudes across campus. And when he does, you're going to tell me about it. And then when I see you cry, I'm going to be forced to stalk him. And then I’m going to have to kill him in his sleep when I find him in order to avenge the soiling of your virtue and whatever else he does to you. And then I’ll be convicted of murder and have to go to prison, ruining all chances of ever living a happy and felony-free life. Is that what you want, Derek?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the frat AU I had been wanting.
> 
> NOTE: THE GREEK LIFE SHENANIGANS THAT OCCUR IN THIS WORK OF FICTION ARE NOT TRUE/ACCURATE/BASED ON ANYTHING REAL.

“ _ Mom _ ,” Derek chokes, hand clenching around the phone.

 

“I’m just asking,” Talia says calmly. “You know you can just ask Cor—”

 

“I am not asking Cora to help me make friends,” Derek bites out. His roommate glances over at him from his desk, raising an eyebrow. Derek glares back until he turns around. Boyd can mind his own business.

 

“Derek, honey…”

 

And Derek knows that voice. He’s heard that voice all too often for the last two years. It’s his mom’s ‘ _ I’m trying really hard not to helicopter parent you, but you’re making it really difficult for me _ ’ voice. He hates it.

 

“Mom, it’s going be better,” he tries to placate her. “Boyd and I are going to...”

 

He twists until he’s looking over at Boyd with a silent plea, hopefully, apparent on his face. Boyd sighs heavily back at him, crinkling up a paper by his elbow with the motion. Derek reaches over and grabs the paper from under Boyd, a flyer on brightly colored paper. Derek, in his desperation, doesn’t stop to look at it too closely before he’s reading it aloud to his mom.

 

“We’re going….we’re rushing?” the last part comes out as a question, Derek’s voice cracking as he panics. He looks over at Boyd, who is muffling laughter into his hand.  _ No freakin’ way. No, no, no, no. _ Derek has been avoiding this particular subject since they moved in, late last August.

 

“Rushing to where?” Talia asks. “Are you going somewhere? Where are you going?”

 

Derek groans and falls back on his bed. Boyd throws a wadded up paper at him and laughs when Derek flails around on the bed. Isaac walks in the door, then, tossing his backpack onto the floor and waving at them both.

 

“A fraternity. We’re going to join a fraternity,” Derek grumbles.

 

“A fraternity. Like…Greek life?” his mom doesn’t sound convinced in the slightest, but Derek can sense her excitement over the phone. “Or like an academic organization?”

 

She worries about him; he knows his mom worries about him more than she worries about any of his siblings. He doesn’t have Laura’s self-assuredness or sharp sense of humor. He doesn’t have Cora’s particularly aggressive brand of charm, her fearlessness. Aaron, his older brother, is the social butterfly: high school football star and homecoming king. His youngest sister, Avery, is quieter than her sisters but she knows how to light up a room; she still has a warmth to her that people feel drawn to. Derek knows he takes after his dad: Robert Hale’s introvertedness, his difficulty connecting with new people, and the distinct ability to appear invisible in large groups of people. Derek couldn’t be more unlike his siblings. When he (finally) moved away to school, Derek had been terrified. Luckily, he’d been matched with Isaac and Boyd. His mom had been placated, at least.

 

Not even trying to hide his obvious eavesdropping, Isaac’s head jerks up from where it’s deep in the snack drawer. His eyes are wide and Cheez-Its are falling from his mouth as he gapes. Derek glares at him, but Isaac is already whispering excitedly with Boyd. Frick.

 

“Greek life, mom,” Derek answers. There’s no point in trying to fight this.

After reassuring his mom that he is, most definitely, going to make friends and try his best to be more friendly (“Yes, mom. I’ll try to… _ I’m not grinding my teeth… _ Shut up, Boyd!”), Derek hangs up and turns from his perch on his bed to glare at his roommates. Isaac is obsessively reading through a bunch of tabs open on his laptop and Boyd is looking at the screen with him over his shoulder.

 

“You guys, maybe I shouldn’t—”

 

“We’re doing this,” Isaac cuts him off. He glances up at Derek and then resumes looking at the screen. “All of us. 

 

“Do you honestly think I would fit in—in  _ any _ frat?” Derek groans, petulant and self-pitying.

 

“Uh, nope. But maybe you can ask Cora…” Boyd trails off, looking up at Derek hopefully.

 

“I am not asking my little sister for help,” Derek grits.  _ Why has everyone said that? _

 

“I’m not saying you should ask her for  _ help _ ,” Boyd explains, “Just maybe have her put in a good word for you.”

 

“Derek, she’s dating the VP of Alpha Sigma Chi. That’s one of the best frats on campus,” Isaac interjects. Derek doesn’t know if Isaac sounds more awed or frustrated. 

He’ll file that reaction away for later.

 

“She got into a tier one sorority her freshman year  _ before she even unpacked a box on moving day _ . Derek….come  _ on _ .”

 

Boyd and Isaac are both glaring at Derek, who doesn’t understand why Cora’s ability to make friends has any bearing on the situation at hand. Muttering a stream of obscenities, Isaac walks over and pulls Derek’s phone out of his hand. Derek jumps down from his bed and tries to grab it from him, but Boyd grabs him around the waist and manhandles him down onto the floor. Isaac is scrolling through something and typing while Boyd has Derek pinned. When Derek finally wrestles out of Boyd’s grip, he finds the message thread with Cora.

 

**To: Cora the Exploradora**

**_Need a *huge* favor…_ **

 

Derek punches a retreating Isaac in the shoulder and drops down into the empty chair at his desk. Isaac is jumping up and down in his apparent glee, assaulting Boyd’s back with excited slaps. Boyd ignores Isaac, instead sitting back and smirking at Derek. Derek hates them both. 

 

Before he can try to make a death threat or a dark promise of any kind, his phones vibrates.

 

**From: Cora the Exploradora**

**_What do you want? I’m on a date. With my boyfriend. We’re doing date-y things._ **

 

Derek shudders and barely suppresses the urge to throw his phone out the window. Isaac makes grabby hands so Derek surrenders his phone again. He doesn’t like texting much.

 

**To: Cora the Exploradora**

**_Boyd, Isaac, and I are going to rush._ **

 

The reply is instantaneous.

 

**From: Cora the Exploradora**

  1. **FUCKING. WAY.**



 

Derek gets his phone back and tries to do some damage control, knowing the waves of Cora’s enthusiasm are about to pour through the floodgates.

 

**To: Cora the Exploradora**

**_Don’t make this a big deal. It’s not. I just…I need advice._ **

 

His phones rings 5 seconds after he sends the last text. He answers and puts it on speaker, but she’s talking before he can even touch the button on the screen.

 

“—have to rush Alpha Sig. I can totally give you guys an in,” Cora’s speaking at a speed somewhere near a hundred words a minute. Derek doesn’t know if she knows how to breathe in between her words.

Boyd and Isaac send Derek twin ‘I told you so’ looks. Derek rolls his eyes and puts her on speaker.

 

“Hello, Cora,” Isaac chirps gleefully. “This is Isaac. We can all hear you.”

 

“Hey, Isaac,” Cora smarms. She actually  _ smarms _ over the phone.  _ Ugh. _ “Hey, Boyd. I’m assuming you’re there, too.”

 

“He is. Funny you called, ‘cause I was just telling Derek about the benefits of having a wonderful, beautiful, charming younger sister,” Isaac talks over Boyd’s grunt of acknowledgment.

 

“Laying it on kind of thick there,” Boyd mutters smugly.

 

“I can talk to Aiden. See what I can do,” Cora ignores them both. “Do you guys have any other frats in mind?”

 

Derek has zoned out of the conversation. As Isaac and Boyd argue the merits of other frat chapters, Derek is resolutely staring at the ceiling. Maybe he can slip out of the room before anyone can notice he’s actually gone.

 

“Sounds good, guys. I’ll text Derek later about any deets. Come on out to Rush, then, and find me. It’s out on the lawn in a couple weeks and y’all can talk to the boys. Make some friends. Hey, you hear me, loser?” Cora’s last comment is pointedly directed at Derek. How she can tell he’s trying to escape over the phone, Derek doesn’t know.

 

“Yeah,” he mumbles back, guiltily.

 

Isaac hangs up after a round of goodbyes and pumps his fists into the air, whooping like the obnoxious moron he is. Derek continues glaring at both of them and throws a shoe at Isaac for good measure. He rolls over and wills himself to sleep before either of his roommates can say anything else.

Stiles’ first thought waking up is a groggy,  _ I am so hungover. _ His face is smashed against something smooth and cool. And… _ yep, that’s a window _ . 

 

He rolls over and falls down, hitting the ground so hard it punches the air out of his stomach. He groans dramatically and flops an arm over his face, trying to wish away the grittiness from his eyes and the bitter taste in his mouth. It doesn’t work. He sits up haphazardly and glances around. The car he was sleeping on is definitely not his, but at least the clothes he’s wearing are familiar. He’s woken up wearing a dress that wasn’t his, before. He’s also woken up naked, floating in Lydia’s pool. Both were, actually, rather pleasant experiences.

 

“Sh’tiles,” a muffled voice calls out to him.

 

He manages to stand and turn around, looking to match a body or face to the voice. He giggles as he tries to lumber his way through the front yard. In an outline of beer cans, Scott is laying face up on the far side of the lawn. He’s also fully clothed.  _ Thank God. _

 

“Morn’, bud,” Stiles greets him through a yawn. “How ya’ feeling?”

 

Scott whines and rolls over, knocking down half of the beer cans in the process. Stiles chuckles and picks up a lone still-standing can. It’s, thankfully, still full. He pops it open and glugs down the warm beer. He’s had worse breakfasts.

 

“Don’t you guys have class in like….right now?” Jackson calls out from the porch. He’s already dressed and showered, drinking coffee from a Starbucks cup—the smug bastard. Lydia comes walking out of the house, also fully dressed and looking well-rested. Stiles waves at them both and blows them a kiss. Jackson flips him off and Lydia rolls her eyes as she takes another sip from her cup. She’s apparently already met her testosterone quota for the morning, so she walks down the steps and makes her way to her car.

 

Stiles glances at his watch, the good one he notes, but he can’t read the numbers on the clockface. He squints and moves his wrist around, but the numbers don’t look any less blurry. Giving up, Stiles steps over Scott’s sleeping body and flings his wrist in Jackson’s direction.

 

“Wha’ does this say?” he demands.

 

Jackson huffs and walks back into the house, shouting, “It’s almost 9:30.”

 

That jolts Stiles into motion. He kicks at Scott’s legs, waking him up again.

 

“Scotty,” he slurs. “Fuck, Scotty! We gotta go.”

 

Dragging himself up, Scott relches wetly, hunched over with his hands gripping his knees. Stiles winces but he dutifully grabs Scott’s hand and helps him stick a finger down his throat until he can successfully throw up. Scott doubles over onto his knees and promptly throws up on the grass, giving Stiles a thumbs up as he shudders.

 

“Better?” Stiles asks, searching for his keys.

 

Scott nods and stands straight, stretching his back. He begins to stagger in the direction of campus, not waiting for Stiles—who is still looking for his keys. Stiles gives up and jogs after Scott, head throbbing and his shirt smelling like he rolled in a pool of sweat and beer.

Derek is furiously typing notes, trying to keep up with his professor’s lecture, when the door creaks loudly and two sets of footsteps echo in the silence of the lecture hall. He doesn’t look up from his laptop until the sound of someone clearing his throat startles him. He glances up, still typing, and promptly loses all focus 

 

The kid looking down at him is….oh, wow. Big brown eyes, glassy and bloodshot. Turned up button nose. Full chapped, pink lips on an open mouth. And talking. Talking to him, he realizes.

 

“What?” he asks when he snaps out of his detailed cataloguing of the guy’s face.

 

“Can you move?” the guy asks, obviously annoyed he’s had to repeat himself. He gestures aggressively to the empty seats on Derek’s right.

 

Derek nods and shifts over two seats to his right to let the guy and his friend into the row. Derek’s blushing and trying not to make eye contact, afraid of this guy seeing what’s written all over his face. He is suddenly incredibly grateful Boyd is three rows ahead of him where he can’t see the train wreck that is Derek trying to interact with other people, especially anyone attractive. He nods in response when the guy’s friends leans over to whisper a ‘thanks’ and tries to smile in a way that doesn’t say ‘I really want to put my mouth on your friend’s mouth.’

 

“Do you, uh, have any paper? And a pencil?” the guy asks a girl in front of Derek.

 

Derek lurches to grab paper out of his notebook and hands Stiles his pen before the girl has even opened her bag. The guy looks at Derek and raises an eyebrow (a really nicely shaped eyebrow, Derek’s thinking to himself), but takes the offered paper and pen without question. His friend looks over at Derek imploringly and Derek hands him a pen as well.

 

“Thanks,” the friend whispers loudly. He smiles at Derek and reaches a fist across his the first guy for Derek to bump. “I’m Scott.”

 

“Uh, Derek,” Derek replies, glancing at the other guy while trying to look as unaffected as possible.

 

“Stiles,” the guy next to Derek mutters irritably in response.

 

Derek nods and then spends the last 40 minutes of the lecture trying to ignore the way Stiles’ leg is bouncing and the way he’s chewing on the pen Derek lent him. Scott sleeps most of the lecture, jerking awake only when Stiles shoves the sign-in sheet under his face. Scott messily signs his name and hands it back, falling back asleep in seconds. Stiles pulls out a monstrous-sized can of energy drink and slurps at it until Derek glances over, frown set deep in his face.

 

Stiles smirks and slurps louder than before, running his tongue around the rim in a way that is usually reserved for the porn that Derek definitely  _ doesn’t _ watch.

 

This is going to be a long semester.

A few weeks later, Derek finds himself on the campus lawn with Boyd and Isaac. He’s considering leaving school and becoming a hermit.

“So we just…walk around?” Derek’s skepticism is verging towards mild panic, his social anxiety rearing it’s acne-ridden, prom-skipping, last-picked-in-PE, word-st-st-stuttering head.

 

“Rush is about getting to know people. Making connections,” Isaac drawls, eyes scanning the tables. “And checking out hot freshmen.”

 

Derek makes a face and pushes his hands into his pockets. At least no one will see how his hands are shaking if they’re crammed into the, admittedly awkward, large pockets of his cargo shorts. There are bright flyers, groups of people chatting, and the music from the DJ’s booth: it’s all a bit overwhelming, in Derek’s opinion.

 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Boyd tries to console him.

 

Derek swallows thickly, the clicking-sound in his throat drowned out by the thumping bass of a song coming over the speakers. He walks with Isaac and Boyd around the tables, writing his name down on the various lists Boyd points out to him. He makes small talk with a few guys from different fraternities— or he tries to, at least. Derek doesn’t think he does too terribly. He manages to make his smiles look less like winces and more like grins. He only messes up introducing himself once: “My Derek is name,” only just managed to slip out before Derek shut his mouth and started over. Other than that, Derek thinks he’s doing pretty okay. He collects pamphlets that he reads while he’s walking around, taking mental note of which frat does what. It turns out to be not such a good idea to read and walk at the same time because he doesn’t notice when he loses Isaac and Boyd. He has his face buried in a pamphlet about the benefits of fraternity-sponsored community service, when he crashes into something….someone.

 

“Watch what the fuck you’re doing!” the body underneath him flails and squawks.

 

“I’m so, so sorry,” Derek mutters as he struggles to untangle himself from the mass of limbs sprawled under him. He finally manages to clamber off the person and roll to his knees, when he recognizes the face glaring at him.

 

_ Oh God, why? _

 

“Stiles, right?” he asks cautiously when he manages to swallow down the vomit that’s threatening to climb up his throat. He knows it’s Stiles, but he’s hoping to play off his mortification with uncertainty. Maybe if he acts like he doesn’t quite know who the guy is, he can escape with at least an ounce of his dignity. “I think you sit next to me in Bio.”

 

“Hmph,” is Stiles’ only reply as he gets up and dusts himself off.

 

“Sorry,” Derek tries again. “I didn’t see you.”

 

“Whatever,” Stiles rolls his eyes and straightens up. When he finally looks at Derek, his eyes narrow. “Wait, I know you from somewhere.”

 

It sounds more like an accusation than a sentence. Derek blushes and fidgets in place.

 

“Yeah,” he says lightly. “I sit next to you in Bio. I gave you, uh, a pen and paper this one time.”

 

“Eric or something, right? Evan?” Stiles asks. The way he bites his lip is incredibly distracting.

 

“Derek,” it comes out higher than Derek would like. It sounds like a question.

 

Stiles looks Derek over, gaze raking downward then upwards again. His mouth curls at the corners; the smirk on his face is at once both frightening and ridiculously attractive. Derek hates himself just a little bit for the fear-induced boner he’s trying to will away.

 

“Are you lost?” Stiles asks, none too politely. “I mean, you know this is  _ rush _ , right? Like, for Greek life? Like, for fraternities and sororities?”

 

Before Derek can stutter out an embarrassed response or blurt out how much he’s currently attracted to Stiles’ insufferable douchebag-act, a firm hand grips his shoulder. He looks up at Boyd with a grateful sigh and slump of his shoulder. Cora is standing behind him, Isaac at her left.

 

“Stilinski,” she calls out. The look of distaste on Cora’s face makes her look like she sucked on a lemon. “I thought I smelled ‘insufferable toolbag’ all the way over at my booth.”

 

“It’s a very particular stench,” Stiles snarks back. “Much like Eau du Entitled Bitch.”

 

Derek makes a sort of half-lunge in Stiles’ direction but Boyd pulls him back. Despite Derek’s big, gay hard-on for him, Cora is his baby sister. No one talks to her that way in front of him, perfect cupid’s-bow-mouth be damned.

 

“That’s my sister, you dipwad,” Derek says through clenched teeth. It’s not the best of comebacks, but it’s enough to pull Stiles’ attention away from Cora. The smug, easy grin that was so attractive only moments ago now makes Derek want to punch him in the jaw.

 

“Nice one, Der-Bear. Real menacing. Did you come up with it all by yourself?” Stiles says. He’s still smiling.

 

“Ah, fuck you,” Cora spits back.

 

“Oh, baby. I bet you’d like to,” Stiles winks at Cora and runs a hand up his stomach, rucking up his shirt. Derek feels his stomach drop. He knows Cora doesn’t, but the implication embarrasses him and makes him feel small.

 

“Sorry, but I’m not gonna be hopping on the bandwagon of—well—hopping on your dick. Or your ass, for that matter,” Cora continues with a wink. “Especially when I know where you’ve been.”

 

She aims a bright, wide smile at Stiles as the crowd around them quiets down a bit. Stiles rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, but all his empty posturing falls a bit short and he looks defensive. Derek shifts awkwardly in his place, unsure of where this confrontation is heading.

 

“Ignore, him, Der,” Cora oozes an eerie, self-assured calm. Even for Cora, it’s a little much. “He’s just mad that I turned him down at the Welcome Back mixer at Whittemore’s last year. And that I aired his dirty laundry, afterwards.”

 

Stiles straightens up, arms tightening. His eyes narrow and he clenches his jaw so tightly, Derek thinks Stiles could actually hurt himself. The anger apparent on his face, but his eyes are wide. Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times, making some connection Derek can’t see. If Derek didn’t know better, he’d say Stiles looks almost…hurt? There was no way. And then what Cora said earlier it hits Derek like a freight truck.

 

“You’re gay?” Derek blurts out at the same time Stiles spits out, “That was you?!”

 

“Seriously, Derek? That’s what you’re taking out of all this?” Boyd hisses in his ear.

 

Stiles shoots them a venomous look and spins around to check if anyone has eavesdropped on their conversation. A couple of girls are shooting pointed looks over at Stiles and whispering behind their hands. Behind him, a couple of guys have stopped throwing a football to watch them. One of them snickers and shakes his head. Cheeks flushed a bright red in anger, Stiles turns back around and shoots the group one last glare before stomping away. Derek catches the look of pained, frantic hurt on his face; he feels awful.

 

“Who the fuck was that kid?” Isaac asks after a moment.

“Stiles Stilinski,” Cora says after letting out a deep, put-upon sigh. “God, the kid’s such a little shit- but he’s one of the most popular guys on campus. Baseball player. Textbook fraternity-jock with as many issues as dollars in his trust fund. The dude knows everyone and he’s very…well, let’s just say he’s quite the _people_ _person_ —if you catch my drift.”

 

Derek’s gut, for the hundredth time that day, drops to the soles of his feet. Of course. The person he’s been infatuated with since the start of school is not only a stereotypical egotistical asshole, but the school slut as well. Perfect. Derek sure knows how to pick ‘em.

 

“He’s also VP of Phi Delta Psi, another tier one frat. It’s actually  _ super _ exclusive and well-connected. Jackson Whittemore is President, so it’s also totally loaded,” Aiden adds from behind them. “Phi Delts actually throw some of the best events, but their brothers are notoriously douchey.”

 

“Hey, baby,” Cora coos.

 

She draws Aiden’s arms around her and he picks her up to swing her around. Derek turns away and Boyd laughs at his disgusted grimace. Besides the fact that Derek hates most forms of affection, this is his baby sister. There are some things he should not be subjected to: watching his little sister make out with her boyfriend should be one of them.

 

“Holy shit,” Isaac says through a heavy exhale while the makeout session continues behind them. “You were talking to him before we got there. Derek, how the fuck do you even know that guy?

 

“I, uh,” Derek tries to think of the least incriminating answer he can. “He sits next to me in Bio?”

 

Again, with the voice inflections.  _ Get it together, Hale. _

 

“No fucking way,” Boyd groans.

 

Derek already knows where this is going. He’s had to stay up transcribing and making up his own notes from the days he’s been more distracted than usual. Usually, Boyd and Derek study together but lately Derek’s been a little less organized than is normal for him. At the time, Derek had given the excuse of falling asleep in class. But, now, Boyd seems to be putting two and two together. If the look of mild disdain is anything to judge by, he’s already figured it out.

 

“Please, for the love of God, Derek: tell me that little fucking  _ dingleberry _ is not the reason you stopped being a model student. Reassure me, Derek. Because I’m thinking strange thoughts right now. Please,  _ please _ tell me that little dipshit isn’t the reason you stopped taking notes.”

 

“I take notes,” Derek defends. “It’s an early class…I, uh, still have an A.”

 

“You typed 20 words last lecture. And it’s a 9am class,” Boyd argues.

 

“And you have a 91,” Isaac peeps up.

 

And—well, point taken. 

 

“Whatever,” Derek mutters. He knows a losing battle when he sees one.

 

Isaac and Boyd let out twins sounds of disbelief. Isaac throws up his hands and turns around to face Cora and Aiden. He throws his head back and proceeds to throw a tantrum.

 

“ _ Cora _ ,” Isaac cries out. “Derek wants to fuck the the Phi Douche Psi kid.”

 

Cora’s head whips around from where it’s trying to melt into Aiden’s face. She drops from Aiden’s arms and stalks forward. Despite the fact that Derek has a solid foot and a good 50 pounds on her, he still shrinks down. Hands on her hips, eyes narrowed, and mouth dropped open in shock: she’s terrifying.

 

“No,” she breathes. “Don’t even think about it.”

 

“Cora—”

 

“I’m not trying to reverse-psychology-mindfuck you into subliminally wanting to pursue a fucking Romeo-Julian, frat-crossed-lovers romance here. So listen to me when I tell you: hell-to-the-fucking- _ no _ .”

 

“Cora—”

 

“ _ No _ ,” she cuts Derek off again before he can even deny anything. His mouth is still open in his aborted attempt at a retort.

 

“He will chew you up and spit you out, like he has with hundreds of other aspiring young ladies and dudes across campus. And when he does, you're going to tell me about it. And then when I see you cry, I'm going to be forced to stalk him. And then I’m going to have to kill him in his sleep when I find him in order to avenge the soiling of your virtue and whatever else he does to you. And then I’ll be convicted of murder and have to go to prison, ruining all chances of ever living a happy and felony-free life. Is that what you want, Derek?”

 

No, it really wasn’t. Derek shakes his head, visibly cowed.

 

“I can promise,” Aiden assures him, wrapping an arm around Derek’s shoulders, “that you are not missing out on anything.”

 

Derek nods and follows them to another booth.

“Evan,” Stiles assures Scott. “Evan Hale.”

 

“Stiles, there’s not a fucking _Evan_ _Hale_ in the directory!” Danny yells for the fifth time in 20 minutes.

 

Stiles grunts in frustration. What the fuck was that kid’s name?

 

“It’s Derek,” Scott says through bites of the udon soup his girlfriend—Allison? Stiles thinks that’s her name— brought him.  _ Fucking couples, man.  _ “His name is Derek Hale. His middle name’s like Lawrence, or something.”

 

“How do you even know that?” Stiles accuses him.

 

Scott slurps up more noodles and shrugs his shoulders. “He told me when I asked him what his name was.”

 

Danny finally finds the guy and starts to go through his information in the school’s database, muttering streams of words under his breath. Stiles only catches “illegal” and “fucking dirty work” every once in awhile. Whatever, this is what Danny gets for being the most technologically savvy guy in the chapter. And he totally owes Stiles for the keggers he threw last summer. While Danny is working away on his laptop, Stiles begins to put his plan into place. He finds Derek on Facebook, but the guy’s profile is private and they don’t have any friends in common.  _ None. _ Out of the 3035 friends Stiles has, not a single one of them are one of Derek Lee Hale’s 60 friends. Jesus, this kid is a social fucking catastrophe. It’s Scott who finally offers a breakthrough.

 

“Do you want me to just text him?” he offers, spitting broth all over Stiles arm.

 

“What the fuck—Scott, are you fucking serious?” Stiles sputters. He’s wiping the broth of his arm when he smells the weed from his shirt and suddenly it all makes sense. Fucking figures.

 

“Sorry,” Scott says dopily.

 

Stiles grabs Scott’s phone and, sure enough, there is a Derek in Scott’s contact list. Stiles’ eye is twitching so badly, even Danny looks a little concerned. Half an hour. Stiles and Danny have spent half an hour trying to find this guy and Scott has had him under “Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)” in his phone the whole time. For being one of the smartest guys Stiles knows (and Scott is brilliant, don’t get him wrong), Scott has moments of such catastrophic failure that—whatever. He has the number now and that’s all that matters.  With a last withering look at Scott, who just smiles and giggles at himself—Stiles composes a series of texts. He saves them as drafts and sends the first.

 

**To: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_Hey, man. How’s it going?_ **

 

There’s about a five-minute wait until the response. Danny is almost done with Derek’s entire file in the school’s system.

 

**From: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_Nothing. Doing homework. What’s up?_ **

 

Stiles looks over at the clock on his bedside table. It’s 8pm on a Saturday night. Who the fuck  _ is _ this kid?

 

**To: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_Nm. Just wonderin if you were busy. Heard youre rushing GL this sem?_ **

 

Stiles takes the time in between texts to sift through his drawers in search of a clean shirt. He finally finds one that Danny and Scott don’t immediately shoot down and throws it on. Whatever. A clean shirt’s a good shirt. By the time he’s put on clean jeans, there are two more messages from Derek.

 

**From: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_Uh, yeah. Not really sure which one I’m interested in. There are a lot._ **

 

**_I don’t know how any of this stuff works, to be honest_ ** _. _

 

Derek texts in complete sentences, with perfect grammar and spelling; it’s driving Stiles up the wall and he doesn’t really know why. Scott is gulping down the rest of his soup and cracking open a beer, handing him papers Danny’s printed out. There’s a piece of smashed noodle at the bottom. Fucking, Scott.

 

**To: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_It’s ok. I was like that too. I’m in a frat, I can give you some pointers?_ **

 

“Stiles?” Scott asks warily. “What are you doing?”

 

Stiles is browsing through Derek’s information, trying to get a feel for who this kid is. He doesn’t know exactly why, but he can’t stand him. As if it wasn’t enough that this guy was Cora Hale’s younger brother, he was just...oh, scratch that. Cora Hale’s  _ older _ brother.  _ Interesting. _

“This guy has a perfect 4.0 GPA coming into the semester and he’s an upper division transfer from a community college,” he announces to whoever is paying attention. “Seriously, who tries that hard when they’re at a JC? And he was at Stanford for a year before that, Jesus Christ. What the fuck?”

 

There’s the buzz of Scott’s phone in response. 

 

**From: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_That would be really nice._ **

 

Stiles outright laughs.  _ Nice _ , he thinks to himself _. Oh, God- it’s like talking to my Nana. _

 

**To: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_There’s a party tonight at the ZXA house. They’re our sister-sorority. Y don’t you stop by and chill? Bring your friends or wte._ **

**From: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_Okay. Let me just finish up my work and we’ll be there._ **

 

“Stiles?” this time Danny is the one asking.

“Annnnnd, got him,” Stiles mutters. He pumps a fist in the air in victory.

“Jackson has info on him,” Danny announces while texting on his phone. “But why exactly are we interested in this guy? He seems pretty low-profile to me. Upper-level transfer. Good grades. Pretty crazy merit scholarships. Dude’s Pre-Med and a Math minor, shit. Are we recruiting him?”

 

Stiles grins widely and turns back to his phone. Scott tosses the now empty beer bottle in the bin and starts looking over at the papers Danny gave him. He pauses after a moment, eyes scanning over a page.

 

“It says he has legacy at Stanford,” Scott reads. “His grandparents, uncle, mom, and older brother are all alumni. Dude was  _ set _ , why is he here?”

 

“No fucking way,” Danny gasps. His phone is buzzing repeatedly, incoming message after incoming message. “Jackson says there’s already buzz about this Derek kid. Basically, all the tier ones are talking. Beta Tau's already planning on giving him a bid. Lambda Chi is looking at him, too. The President of Alpha Sig picked him out, specifically, at rush.”

 

“Are you kidding me?” Scott groans.

 

Fucking ASig. Stiles cannot stand that goddamn frat; and their president is such a sleazy…wait a minute.

 

“Their president, Aiden—didn’t he have a brother than we knew or something?” Stiles asks. He feels like it’s on the tip of his tongue.

 

“Yeah! Ethan! He was in my Anatomy class last semester. Hey, weren’t you and Ethan…ya know?” Scott asks in the least subtle way possible. The hand motions don’t help either.  _ Christ, Scotty _ .

 

Danny nods solemnly. And Stiles remembers now: Ethan and Aiden Holloway, the Stepford Twins. Ethan and Danny had been a thing over the summer, pretty serious from what Stiles had heard from Jackson. But Ethan had transferred to a different pre-med program in SoCal and ended things with Danny before he left. Danny had come back for the fall semester devastated and all the brothers were pissed for him. Everyone liked Danny.

 

“Yeah,” Danny nods again, once. “It didn’t…we broke up.”

 

“What else did Jackson say?” Stiles says, quick to change the subject.

 

“Aiden put a good word in for Derek with a couple of other frats. All tier one, a couple tier twos. He also made Derek first bid,” Danny recites. “Dude, ASig’s are serious biz. We’re not even in Rush yet. I’m sure this Derek kid is nice and all, but what the hell is he doing on the tier one radar? Let me….oh. Oh, okay. That makes sense now.”

 

Stiles clambers over to peek at Danny’s screen where he’s looking through Facebook. And, sure enough, it all makes sense. Cora Hale is in a relationship with Aiden Holloway. That  _ totally _ makes sense, now that Stiles thinks about it.

 

“Alright, I can see that. Big brother transfers to campus, doesn’t know how to make friends—which, let’s be real here: the kid’s a fucking basket case when it comes to socialization. It’s painful. Awkward big bro can’t talk to anyone, so why not have the boyfriend pull a few strings with his frat and give him a bid?” 

 

“Okay, but what’s your beef with Cora Hale?” Scott asks point-blank.

 

Stiles stills and can feel Danny’s discomfort in his periphery. Danny was at the Welcome Back party last year, too. However, unlike Scott, Danny had been sober for most of the party. Sober enough to bear witness to a select group of events that happened early on in the night (and a select group of events later in the night, apparently, also involving Cora fucking Hale). Thankfully, Danny doesn’t say a word about it. But Stiles can tell he wants to.

 

“She’s a raging bitch who gets off on making the people she’s intimidated by, miserable?” Stiles replies.

 

They’re all nodding their heads now, contemplative. Stiles is startled out of his train of thought when a very angry and very wet Jackson throws open the door. His shirt is drenched and stained brown, his hair flattened around his head. He looks so angry, but Stiles can’t help the laugh that escapes him when he sees Whittemore sputtering and bug-eyed.

 

“What the hell happened to you?” Scott bravely ventures to ask.

 

“Holloway,” Jackson mutters. He’s absolutely seething.

 

“What—”

 

“Aiden. Fucking. Holloway. And his merry band of fucktards,” Jackson says, just shy of screaming. He throws his sopping wet shirt on the floor. Stiles is refusing to acknowledge the beer-soaked shirt that is currently seeping into the carpet. “Alpha Sig crashed the party and then trashed my car. They got me with a fucking faulty keg when I was running after one of them. And then they called the fucking cops and busted the pre-game party at Lambda Chi. I busted my ass to get that setup going and I almost got arrested for underage fucking drinking.”

 

“So I take it, you’re mad at Aiden Holloway?”

 

Jackson shoots a venomous glare at Scott, but takes the offered cup of…something.

 

“What a coincidence. We were just talking about him,” Stiles says quietly.

 

Jackson rifles through Danny’s closet, pulling out a button up and shoving his arms through the sleeves. Stiles is fidgeting in his seat and trying to think of something to add.

 

“I hate that fucking fraternity. Every person in that fucking chapter. I swear to god, they are the most entitled, flashy, piece-of-shit frat on this campus,” Jackson rants. “I can’t believe they ever made tier one.”

 

“You know their recruitment is pretty comparable to ours, right? They’re actually a little more exclusive, if you look at our numbers. And they have a lot of alum connections,” Scott adds. “They’re also super loaded, man; their new house has a  _ pool _ .”

 

“That was  _ them _ ? I saw the construction for that all summer! What a bunch of pompous bastards,” Stiles scoffs, returning to his Derek intel.

 

“I don’t know,” Scott shrugs. “I wish we had a pool.”

 

Jackson is pacing, Danny looking on both with amusement and concern: something only Danny could pull off. Stiles is shuffling through the printed out papers when he finally thinks of it.

 

“What if we offered Derek a bid?” Stiles announces. 

Danny and Scott still in their seats, glancing over at Jackson—who just looks confused. Stiles’ brain is already going a mile a minute. This could totally work. He’s already got half of it set in motion. This would be incredibly easy. This would put Cora and Aiden into their fucking places.

 

“Who the fuck is Derek?” Jackson asks in response, visibly unimpressed.

 

“Cora Hale’s older brother,” Scott supplies. “She’s dating Aiden and Stiles has beef with both of them, or whatever.”

 

“Alright, Stilinski,” Jackson relaxes on the bed. He pulls out his phone and motions for Stiles to continue. “You have the floor.”

 

“Thank you, Captain Fuckface,” Stiles continues. “So, I’m thinking: what if we offered Derek a bid? There’s no way he’d turn us down. The kid knows how big a deal it is and he’d probably jump at the chance.”

 

“Except he hates you,” Scott says dubiously.

 

“Didn’t you guys get into it at rush?” Danny asks.

 

“No, dude. The guy totally has a thing for me. He sits next to me in Bio and he pays more attention to me than to Dr. Brannon’s lecture,” Stiles explains coolly. “It’s incredibly tragic.”

 

“Are you fucking serious?” Jackson sputters. “Hale has a boner for you?”

 

“Yeah, I’m sure I send butterflies right to his tummy,” Stiles notes. “Which is why I’ll play nice with him. I play up the flirty card, make friends with him and make him feel all warm and tingly inside. Then we offer him a bid and, well, the kid’s a weirdo…so we’ll have to offer bids to his friends too. I saw them at rush, a big stocky black guy and a tall, lanky kid. I think they’re roommates or something? I saw it in his student info. We offer them all bids, put them through initiation, then come Winter Wonder: we fuck him up and blame it on Alpha Sigma.”

 

Scott chokes on his second beer. Jackson is sitting on his bed in awe, while Danny is staring at Stiles, horrified. The reactions are a lot more mixed than Stiles would have liked. But, then again…maybe this is kind of heavy shit.

 

“Like, beat him up?” Scott wonders.

 

“ _ No _ ,” Stiles groans. “This has to be more emotionally traumatic than physical. Derek doesn’t need much of a push over the edge. We don’t need to go full Greenberg. I’m thinking like releasing nudes, or...a sex tape. Dude, classic.”

 

No one says anything.

 

“Jesus, what did Derek ever do to you besides having a little crush on you?” Scott breathes.

 

Stiles is rather disappointed in Scott’s lack of enthusiasm. Then again, he doesn’t know what happened at Welcome Back. But there’s no way Stiles is bringing that up; he can’t.

 

“Derek? Nothing. He’s just a pawn. A conveniently awkward, naïve, little pawn on the chessboard that is justice,” Stiles might go a little bit overboard with the analogy, but whatever. He has a point to make.

 

“Brilliant,” Jackson says through a wide smile. He’s look at Stiles in awe—which is a nice change from the usual abject disdain and disappointed hatred. “As long as it’s you fucking him, I don't care.”

 

“I don’t know,” Danny, meanwhile, looks uncomfortable. “This Derek kid? He seems okay. He’s a little…I don’t know, maybe he’s kind of a dweeb. But he seems nice? Scott isn’t he a nice guy?”

 

Scott nods fervently, the little shit.

 

“See? Scott says he’s a nice dude. I get that you have beef with Cora and Aiden,” Danny at least agrees with Stiles there. “By all means, go after them. But I don’t see why you have to involve Derek.”

 

“Because if I do anything to Cora, I invoke the wrath of her entire sorority. Plus, she’s a girl so it would look worse than it would actually be. And we also get her Alpha-douche boyfriend and his legion of tools on us, too. Plus, it’ll only support the vendetta she has against me,” Stiles explains. “And if I hit her where it hurts, it’s done. She won’t retaliate if it makes it worse for her brother. Unfortunately, that makes Derek an easy and convenient target: he’s Cora’s Achilles heel, man, otherwise she wouldn’t be trying so hard to help him make friends. Let alone friends in a tier one.”

 

“Just think about it. We pull this off: we humiliate Cora via Derek, we fuck with Alpha Sigma Chi and therefore Aiden, and then—when AEX is asked to give up their chapter—Delta Zeta is left without a tier one frat. Cora’s ‘princess’ and Aiden’s ‘duke of dickdom’ statuses get dragged through the mud and then we don’t have to deal with them anymore. It’s like, five birds with one socially-awkward-cargo-shorts-wearing stone.”

 

Whether or not Danny and Scott are on board, Jackson is clearly supportive of Stiles’ plan. There’s no way this can go wrong; Derek is already infatuated with Stiles and in need of friends, two things Stiles can play up and take care of. He’s opening a beer to congratulate himself, when Scott’s phone vibrates again.

 

**From: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_I think we’re here, but I don’t know anyone. Do you want us to wait for you?_ **

 

Stiles chuckles to himself and the perfect timing and sends a quick text. 

 

**To: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_En route. Find Allison Argent. She’ll help u guys out. B ther in like 10._ **

**From: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_Hey, is Stiles going to be here?_ **

**To: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_Ya. We can all hang out?_ **

**From: Derek (Pen Dude in Bio)**

**_Yeah. Okay. Sounds good :)_ **

 

Stiles cackles loudly and tosses the phone to Scott, who reads it and shakes his head. He doesn’t say anything to Stiles but Danny shoots him a disappointed look. They’re out the door before Stiles can think too much about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah,” he laughs. “No feelings or anything.”
> 
> Derek glares at him and crosses his arms. After a few seconds of Stiles laughing, Derek stands and pulls Stiles towards him with a tug of his neck. Their mouths crash and Derek feels confident enough to slip his tongue into the kiss. Stiles sighs and Derek can feel the moment when he gives in. Stiles breaks the kiss to take his phone out of his back pocket and hand it over to Derek, eyebrow quirked up in question. Derek saves his number, fingers buzzing in excitement and smile wide on his face. When he hands the phone back, Stiles is watching with a small frown. 
> 
> “This is going to come back to bite me in the ass,” he surmises with a shake of his head.
> 
> “Are you into that?” Derek asks.

Derek is still nervous. He’s sitting in the car in front of the sorority house, Isaac in the driver’s seat and Boyd on the passenger side. He’s texted Scott and confirmed that Stiles is going to be at the party, but that’s not really working to soothe his nerves. Maybe he doesn’t want to do this after all.

 

“We’re going inside,” Isaac sounds equal parts irritated and amused.

 

“We don’t… _ have t—“ _

 

“Derek, you managed to get an invite to a sorority party,” Boyd still sounds amazed. “All by yourself. And to a tier one sorority that isn’t even your sister’s.”

 

Derek thinks on that for a second.

 

“Yeah, exactly,” Isaac quips. “Whoever this Scott kid is, he’s a fucking saint.”

 

Derek frowns and unbuckles his seatbelt as slowly as he can. He hadn’t exactly gotten around to telling Isaac and Boyd that Scott McCall was not only a member of the one fraternity they both hated, but also Stiles’ best friend.  _ Minor details _ , Derek thought to himself.  _ What Isaac and Boyd don’t know won’t hurt them. _

 

The three of them get out of the car and are walking up the lawn when a loud girl’s voice calls out, “Dibbs!”

 

Isaac turns around and there’s a leggy brunette girl on his arm in seconds. Derek feels a hand on his waist and turns to…see the most attractive girl he’s ever met.  _ Holy crap. _ Bright red lips and tousled blonde hair. And those lips are  _ smiling _ at  _ him _ .

 

“Hi,” she says brightly. Derek is at a loss for words. He looks around and he seems to be the only person in the front, so she must be talking to him.

 

The blonde chuckles and wraps red-tipped fingers around his wrist. Boyd is watching with a giant grin on his face and a red-haired girl under his arm. She makes eye contact with Derek and smiles, sharp and bright.

 

“And who are you lovely gentlemen?” the redhead asks. The glitter on her eyelids shimmers under the streetlights on the sidewalk, reminding Derek of the stick-on galaxy glued to his ceiling. In his room. Where he wants to be.

 

“I’m Boyd and that’s Isaac,” Boyd introduces. “And that flushing cherub is Derek.”

 

On cue, Derek blushes and the girl clinging onto him smiles, bright white teeth glowing in the dark of the night. Derek might faint.

“Derek Hale?” the brunette under Isaac’s arm asks.

 

When Derek nods, her eyes widen and she shares an almost questioning look with the other two girls. The blonde girl that has claimed Derek nods in a sort of reply and then the brunette resumes speaking. “I’m Allison. Scott told me to keep an eye out for you and show you a good time,” she speaks softly and her face is kind. Derek immediately likes her. “These are my Zeta sisters, Erica and Eliza.”

 

Eliza throws open the door when they reach the porch, immediately bombarded with the smells of cheap liquor and sweat. The bass from the speakers goes right through Derek’s legs and his steps grow shaky with every step. It might not actually be from the music, but Derek will use the excuse.

 

“Welcome to the party of your lives, boys,” Eliza calls out and jumps on Boyd’s back.

 

Erica drags Derek inside with the same bright, wide smile- although it looks determinedly more animalistic under the black lights. Derek is starting to reconsider his exit strategy.

“Stilinski!” Todd cheers when Stiles walks through the back door of the Zeta Chi house. He smiles back because Todd might be dumb as a brick, but the dude gets good liquor and can pitch a wicked fastball.

 

“’Sup, Granger,” Stiles calls back, accepting a cup of what he’s assuming is SoCo. Wonderful, it  _ is. _

 

He makes small talk with some other guys from the baseball team, before eventually leaving to make his way through the rest of the party. Jackson is manning a keg outside and reffing the beer pong tournament, Danny at his side. Scott left Stiles the second they walked in, searching for Allison. Stiles will eventually find him again, no doubt drunk and half-naked. He sees Lydia’s little, Eliza, hanging all over some muscular, dark dude. As he gets closer to her, he realizes the dude is very familiar.

 

“Hey,” Stiles bares his teeth in a schmoozy grin, trying to lay on the charm as thickly as possible. If this guy is who he thinks he is, he needs to save some face.

 

“Hey, yourself,” the guy replies coolly, looking him over briefly.

 

Considering the way Lizzie is attacking this guy’s face and neck, Stiles is surprised he’s able to string two words together. Stiles has been on the receiving end of Lizzie’s attention: the dude deserves a fucking medal.

 

“I’m Sti—"

 

“I know who you are,” the guy cuts him off with an accompanying eye-roll. He doesn’t look impressed. “I’m Boyd. I’m Derek’s roommate.”

 

“Well, I guess my reputation precedes me,” Stiles grins, but he knows it looks too tight. “I hope you’ve heard the right things about me.”

 

“Trust me: I haven’t,” Boyd replies with a frown. His nose crinkles, as if Stiles’ reputation has a smell.

 

Whatever.

 

“Boyd, let’s go upstairs,” Lizzie calls into his ear, loud enough for Stiles to hear and get the hint.

 

“Stay away from Derek,” Boyd calls out as he follows Lizzie up the stairs.

 

Stiles snorts and shakes his head. He always did like a challenge.

_ Oh, God. _

 

Derek was going to die. He had lived a long, wonderful almost-quarter of a century. In his short life, he’s seen the planets line up in the sky through his telescope. His sister married, after years sworn to “crazy, cat-lady” status. He saw his neighbor’s pet raccoon give birth a couple of years ago. Heck, he’s seen the formation, breakup, and reunion of ‘NSYNC. And now, he was going to die.

 

“Derek, you okay?” Erica asks. She sounds like she’s repeating herself.

 

Derek gives a jerk of his head, trying to focus on something that isn’t her hand on his crotch. He looks over at Isaac, but he’s not any help if the dazed look on his face is anything to judge by. The brunette that met them out front, Allison, is sitting in his lap and giving him a very… _ rousing _ lap dance to a hair metal song. Gosh, Isaac is completely useless. 

 

“Hey, baby,” Erica singsongs. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” 

 

She sounds a little warm and fuzzy, like she knows exactly the effect the raspy timbre of her voice should have on Derek. But her eyebrows are furrowed and her face shows her genuine concern. Derek’s lets out a strangled exhale and he nods, slower this time. Erica doesn’t seem to mind his apprehension and she kisses him, gentle and slow. Derek is starting to get more comfortable when a loud voice calls out, “Get it, Derek!” He whirls around because he  _ knows _ that voice.

 

Sure enough, Stiles is leaning against the doorframe in the kitchen. Derek has no idea how long he’s been there and his mind races. Did Stiles see Derek turn Erica away? What if he did? What is Stiles going to think if he saw—?

 

“What do you want, Stilinski?” Erica crows. 

 

Stiles beams at her and… _ that was an extremely lewd gesture, wow _ . Derek’s blush is back in full force and he can’t make eye contact with either Erica or Stiles.

 

“Honey, tonight is so not your night,” Erica plays along and slides a possessive hand around Derek’s waist, slipping it onto his back pocket. “I made a friend.”

 

Stiles guffaws loudly and Derek feels like crawling into the wall. Erica senses his discomfort and she moves her hand back up until it’s resting on his arm. Derek sneaks another glance at Stiles, who is aggressively swigging from a bottle of Jim Beam, and startles when he notices Erica narrowing her eyes at him. She keeps glancing between Stiles and Derek, trying to fit the pieces together. Derek can almost hear it the second the wheels click in place.

 

“Unless,” she whispers to Derek, “you’d rather play with someone else?”

 

Derek and Stiles make eye contact from across the room again. Stiles couldn’t have heard Erica, but he stiffens at the pained look on Derek’s face. Derek tries to break eye contact, but he can’t seem to look away. He’s mortified and Stiles looks like he wants to hit something.

 

“Take it easy on him, Reyes,” Stiles sneers, “the guy’s a blushing virgin.”

 

Derek tracks the movement of Stiles’ throat when he gulps from the bottle whiskey. His mouth is going dry and it feels much hotter in the room than when he first walked into it. Derek is so out of his element here; he shouldn’t have come to the party.

 

“I, um,” Derek mumbles so only Erica can hear. “It’s true.”

 

Erica smiles softly at him and mouths, ‘ _ It’s okay, _ ’ but then Stiles is lumbering over and sidling up to Derek’s side. Derek’s breath catches in his throat and he shoots a frantic glance at Erica. Erica raises an eyebrow and shoots one final glance between the two boys before she backs away.

 

“What do you know? I’m thirsty as fuck,” she explains as she walks away. “I’m going to go get a drink."

 

And Derek goes from the pan, into the fire.

Stiles is actually running out of ideas.

He’s been talking to Derek for about ten minutes and he’s already done. The guy is fucking  _ impossible _ ; nothing is working and Stiles is actually flustered. Stiles has game.  _ So much game. _ But Derek doesn’t seem to pick up on that and his nerves are starting to harsh on Stiles’ vibes. Finally, Stiles lets his desperation win out and goes with his last-ditch effort to woo his way into Derek’s pants. Or something like that.

 

“I’ve got to ask you, Derek,” Stiles slides a careful hand onto Derek’s arm. The cotton of his sweater is soft and Stiles strokes his finger against the material. He has a really nice buzz right now; its warmth seeps into his limbs and blurs the hard lines of the room into softer, fuzzier curves. Derek actually looks nice, if Stiles is being honest. The sweater is a bit much, but he’s a good-looking guy. He has nice skin and pretty eyes. He’d look better with some stubble. Maybe if the vulnerable, lost look on his face was replaced with something harder. Speaking of hard.

 

“Erica is, and I know from experience, a dynamo of a young woman. She’s stellar in the sack and she’s got charm oozing from her beautiful pores. So why exactly are you standing next to me right now and not onboard the Reyes Express to Bonetown?”

 

Derek grimaces and fidgets next to him. God, this game is so much easier now that Stiles is back in the right mindset. He slides his hand up Derek’s arm and settles it along his shoulder. Derek stiffens for a moment and turns his head away, giving Stiles a perfect view of the pink tips of his ears. Oh, Derek is just too  _ precious  _ for this world _. _

 

“C’mon, Derek,” Stiles whispers into a flushed ear, his lips barely brushing against the soft skin as he speaks. The whiskey is doing wonders for Stiles’ inhibitions and he’s not complaining. “We’re all friends here and I can keep a secret.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek murmurs.

 

“Oh, I think you do,” Stiles coos. He places a soft kiss below Derek’s ear and finds his skin is soft and warm; he smells like cologne and vaguely like peppermint. Stiles bets he tastes even better than he smells.

 

Derek lets out a strangled whine, turning into Stiles’ body. There’s music picking up in the background and voices are screaming happily at the results of some drinking game. Stiles drops the bottle of whiskey and vaguely feels it bounce on the floor against his foot. Derek is blushing and looking around, maybe looking for a way out—or maybe making sure no one is there to see them huddled in the corner. Stiles tunes it all out, focus narrowing until there’s nothing else except the boy in front of him and that body against his. Derek seems to make a decision, his shoulders rising and his hands coming up to toy with the buttons on Stiles’ shirt. Stiles wants to let out a whoop, but he tips forward into Derek instead.

 

The kiss is rough and awkward at first; Derek’s mouth stays closed and unmoving—uncertain. Stiles cradles Derek’s bottom lip between his own, sucking softly and then releasing it with a sharp nip. Then, Derek whines again, louder this time, and Stiles smiles. There’s a brief moment when they come apart, Derek’s eyes still closed and his mouth is parted open, letting out a sharp gasp that puffs coldly against the spit on Stiles’ chin. It was just a kiss and a sloppy one, at that. But Derek is savoring it, licking the inside of his bottom lip as his eyes blink open in surprise. Stiles almost feels bad for him, in that moment. He  _ almost _ wants to walk away, let Derek have that kiss and just forget about the whole thing. 

 

But then, Derek’s toppling into him with a newfound confidence-or maybe it’s desperation. Either way, he’s chasing Stiles’ mouth with his own and it’s perfect. So Stiles lets him have his way; he gives into Derek with hungry, wet presses of his lips. He coaxes Derek’s mouth open and teaches him how to use his tongue, how to move his mouth open, taking one lip between his teeth at a time. Derek tastes like vodka punch and mint ChapStick. God, he tastes so, so good. His inexperience is telling in the nervous flitters of his hands and the eagerness to take everything Stiles is offering, but Stiles has definitely had worse. Breaking away with a chuckle, Stiles strokes a finger against Derek’s cheek.

 

He looks excited and terrified, fingers trembling as they come up to play with the hem of Stiles’ button up. Derek’s fingers are pale and they look soft. Stiles wants them in his mouth. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” Derek admits in a hushed whisper.

 

“I do,” Stiles says softly, contemplative.

He takes Derek’s hands and pulls him in the direction of the stairs, steps purposeful and unquestioning. Derek follows without a word.

He’s out of his mind. He’s lost it. There’s no other explanation for Derek’s current  _ predicament _ .

Stiles is straddling his hips, hands under his t-shirt after having almost literally ripped Derek’s favorite sweater off. Derek would’ve lamented the new finger-shaped pulls on the sweater, but it’s now somewhere by the door and there is a very shirtless, very muscle-y boy on his lap.  _ Oh, wow. Those are some very nice shoulders. _

 

“C’mon, touch me,” Stiles pleads. His voice is like honey, dripping onto Derek and leaving him sticky and hot. Derek wants to touch, but he doesn’t know  _ how _ . He doesn’t know how to reach out and hold him. He can't figure out how to move his fingers in a way that will bring that beautiful body closer to his. Oh, gosh. Oh  _ no _ . Derek is just not that kind of boy. His mom would be so disappointed.  _ Why is he thinking about his mom? _

 

Stiles must sense his impending anxiety attack because he kisses him again, a crude clash of tongue and mouth that leaves Derek reeling and hungry. His fingers are being moved up and over soft, warm skin by surer, nimbler hands. It takes until the feeling of smooth, ribbed abdominal muscle to get Derek to finally move on his own. He’s mapping over muscle and hair, lingering over the moles that dot Stiles’ chest. Derek is suddenly glad he might be  _ that kind  _ of boy because can die happy now.

Stiles’ hands drop from where they had been wrapped around Derek’s wrists. “Yeah, like that,” he pants. He arches into Derek’s touch, body arching into every movement like there are magnets in Derek’s fingertips. He takes evrything Derek gives him—and Derek is just ecstatic to give him anything he wants.

 

Derek’s body worship is interrupted when Stiles rocks back against him, hips sinuous and expertly controlled. Derek feels his face fill with heat for the millionth time that night, embarrassed of the hard-on he’s been trying to hide since Stiles dragged him into the room. Stiles doesn’t seem to mind, though. He chuckles and repositions himself on Derek’s lap, leaning over to push Derek into the mattress. His hands come up to Derek’s chest, taking his weight, and he begins to grind into Derek with purpose. His hips move with a practiced ease, figure eights and hard circles that have Derek moments away from shaking apart.

 

The fact is: Derek has never really been with another person before. Stiles was right when he told Erica he was a blushing virgin. The farthest he’s ever gone with anyone was...well, he doesn’t like to talk about  _ her _ . But the can call to mind a few impassioned kisses behind the library during his freshman year. After a few fumbling minutes, Charlie—a girl from his lab group—had admitted defeat and left him to go do a reading for class. Point being, Derek isn’t exactly well-versed in the ways of wooing the opposite sex. Or the same sex, for that matter. And his lack of experience and confidence is most definitely showing right now. His growing confidence in touching Stiles slips back up his fingertips, like a reverse IV drip, and up his arms. He swears he can feel the hot rush ooze upwards and congeal into a hard ball of burning anxiety in his chest. All he can seem to do, now, is place his hands on Stiles’ waist and try not to come in his pants. He’s so ridiculously turned on right now; he doesn’t know how he’s not combusting into ash with the intensity of his want. The boy above him is beautiful and hard and cruel, but all Derek knows is how much he  _ wants _ him.

 

After a few more minutes of dry humping, Stiles groans and runs his fingers over Derek’s torso coming to a stop at the waistband of Derek’s jeans. Derek swallows and the click of his dry throat is the only noise in the room. Stiles lifts an eyebrow and palms the front of his jeans. Derek’s mouth falls open at the touch. This is nothing like Erica’s teasing touch, earlier in the numb bustle of the living room. Even through two layers of clothing, Stiles’ hand has him hardening until it’s almost painful and he can’t help the whimper that slips through his mouth. He doesn’t have time to be embarrassed, though, because Stiles is unbuttoning and unzipping his fly.

 

“Can I? It’s cool if you don’t wanna,” Stiles asks. There’s a real sincerity in the question there and Derek appreciates Stiles’ consideration of his consent. Stiles licks his hand, wet and messy, and--

 

And that’s the last coherent thought in Derek’s head because Stiles’ slick hand is slipping under his boxers. His hand is warm and his fingers are callused, Derek think’s he’s going to die. He moans again, unabashedly this time. The roll of his hips is unavoidable as Stiles jerks him off, slow and perfect. He brings his hand out, but Derek’s confusion lasts as long as it takes Stiles to offer his palm and Derek doesn’t even think before he licks it, tasting himself and Stiles and the salty sex. Derek groans as Stiles’ hand returns to grasp him, hand warmer and wetter.  _ Better. _

 

“You feel so good,” Stiles promises in a hushed whisper. “Your cock is so pretty, Derek.”

 

Derek blushes at the lewd praise and promptly comes all over Stiles’ hand. He’s never even  _ said _ the word out loud, so it’s a jarring shock to hear it said in such an intimate context. His arm comes up to cover his face and he hears Stiles laugh. At the sound, Derek feels something shatter in his chest. He can’t help it when his eyes water and he bites his lip to keep it from trembling. He can’t explain  _ why _ he’s feeling the way he is, but all of a sudden it like he’s out of control and so small in a bed too big. He tenses and Stiles stops moving his hand. He’s still loosely holding Derek’s dick, but the rest of his body is tensed. “Derek? Are you okay?” Stiles asks. “What’s wrong?”

 

Derek tries to answer, but his voice refuses to cooperate. The alcohol is buzzing in his ears and the heat of his shame is overwhelming. He hiccups as a tear escapes his control, leaving a wet track down the side of his face as it falls. Derek is schooling his breathing into small, quiet inhalations and exhalations. If he doesn’t have to look at Stiles, he will be just fine. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

 

“Derek, look at me. Dude,” Stiles sounds frantic as he pulls at Derek’s arm. He finally pries it away from Derek’s face, but Derek is resolutely staring at the bookshelf to his left.

 

“I’m fine,” he finally gasps out. “It’s nothing. I’m just freaking out.”

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, man. I can see that.”

 

Stiles tucks Derek back into his boxers, finally, and clambers off of him. Derek feels more embarrassment pool in his gut and it takes all of him not to roll over and pull himself into a ball. The one chance he’s given with the guy he’s been pining after for weeks and he blows it. He laughs weakly at his own pun.

 

“Hey,” Stiles leans over and puts his face right in Derek’s line of sight. Before he can roll over or look away again, Stiles kisses him. It’s soft and small, no tongue or biting. It calms Derek down a bit and he finally lets himself meet Stiles’ gaze.

 

“I’m sorry,” Derek mutters. “I just—I’m kind of…new at all this,” he gestures at himself and at Stiles and, really at the entire room. “I just didn’t know I was going to…you know. And then it was all over and I wasn’t even naked yet and this _ is all just so embarrassing.” _

 

Stiles chuckles, then catches himself when he sees the frustration and pain that must be apparent on Derek’s face. Instead of laughing, however, Stiles rolls his eyes and pulls down his own pants. He’s not wearing underwear and he’s already at half-chub. Oh god.

 

“Even your  _ dick _ is pretty,” Derek wonders.

 

“Thank you,” Stiles smirks.  _ Oh, that was out loud. _

 

“ _ What are you doing _ ?” Derek croaks. He’s still dressed, wiping away the wetness from his eyes, and there is tacky cum on his belly. What in the world is giving Stiles the impression that  _ now _ is the right time to get naked?

 

“I figured you’re embarrassed about…well, you know,” Stiles explains as he crawls back onto the bed and lies next to Derek, “So, I thought I’d show you it was no big deal and distract you. Given, that’s something you still want?”

 

Derek looks up hesitantly and sees there is nothing malicious in Stiles’ face; he’s actually being sincere. He looks at Derek with openness and a kindness that Derek was not expecting in the slightest. From his past interactions with Stiles and everything he’s heard about him, this is the last thing he’d expect from him right now. The Stiles he thought he knew was mean, immature, and spiteful: the person lying next to him is none of those things.

 

“Listen, I used to get panic attacks all the time. A couple of times, it happened in front of people and it was the worst. I hated how it felt, you know? They would coddle me or bend over backwards to make sure I was okay. All I wanted was for people to just leave it be and move on. Just accept it happened and go about the day.”

 

Derek nods.

 

Stiles huffs, “If you want me to ask you if you’re okay every five seconds, I can. I’m not a complete dickhole. But, I just thought maybe you’d like to move past it. Okay?”

 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Derek blurts.

 

He doesn’t know why Stiles is acting so differently. Just yesterday, he was calling Derek names and making fun of him. Just an hour ago, he was teasing him for being a virgin and flirting with Erica. Why the sudden turn around? He could’ve easily laughed at Derek for his hairtrigger and for  _ crying about it _ . He could’ve walked out and left Derek alone to deal with his freak-out. He could’ve done a million things differently, and yet he’s lying next to Derek naked and willing— _ wanting.  _ Derek’s head is spinning.

 

“Because I want to,” Stiles answers honestly, coming up to lean on his elbow and over Derek, still splayed on his back. “Because it’ll feel good. Because I want to make you feel good. Because a million reasons, okay?”

 

Derek nods and turns to face Stiles. He grasps the bottom of his own shirt and tears it off, cleaning up the drying stickiness on his belly and then flinging it away from him. He turns to Stiles and nods again, a small smile curving his lips. Stiles offers a grin in return and kisses him. They kiss for a few minutes, trying to reclaim the easy lust from only moments before. Then, Stiles reaches for Derek’s pants again. This time, Derek reaches down and takes off his jeans completely along with his boxers. Stiles runs a hand down his naked thigh and groans when Derek bucks into his grip.

 

“Okay?” Stiles asks.

 

“Okay,” Derek answers back, sure and steady.

Stiles doesn’t know what exactly makes him want to comfort Derek. Maybe it’s because Derek is  _ nothing _ like his younger sister. Maybe it’s the look on his face when Stiles takes his cock in his hand, wrecked and broken open. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s trying  _ so hard _ to please Stiles. Maybe it’s the way he runs his hands over Stiles like he’s more than just some dude trying to get him off; Derek touches him like he died if he couldn’t. Maybe it’s because the first time Stiles ever got a handjob, he was fourteen years old and he came in his pants after a frantic five seconds. Kyle, a seventeen-year-old senior he’d met through his town’s summer lacrosse camp, had left him in his room in the dark, laughing as he zipped up his own jeans. Stiles remembers feeling dirty and empty, the loneliness. He remembers the buzzing under his skin, like a thousand bees crawling out of his bones. Most of all, he has never been able to forget the need to feel skin on skin, something to anchor him and keep him from floating away. As shitty as his future plans are for Derek, he can’t bring himself to leave him right now.

 

So, he takes in Derek’s trembling bottom lip, his arm pressing down over his face; he ingrains in his memory the flush on his chest and the quiet sniffling. He soaks it in and then the cool apathy and false interest leaks out of him. He  _ can’t _ completely break down this kid. Stiles finds himself lying down with Derek, face-to-face, and completely naked. He takes his time and shows Derek how to grip him. How to lick his hand so his hand isn’t painfully dry, like he had done. He shows him how to grip at the base of his dick, holding off the orgasm a little while longer, until he finally feels like letting go. And Derek absorbs everything with a fervent willingness and need to learn. It fills Stiles with a fire that trickles and pools in his stomach, warming him from the inside.

 

“Like this?” Derek asks. He has both hands wrapped around Stiles, one hand holding him at the base and the other slowly twisting up in a lazy, careful corkscrew. The kid learns fast as  _ shit _ and Stiles deserves a fucking ‘Mentor of the Year’ award for this handjob.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles pants, “that’s perfect.”

Derek preens, his lips twitching in an almost smile. He positively  _ glows _ with Stiles’ praise and Stiles decides to file that reaction away for later, a shiny new ‘praise kink’ tab in the ‘Derek’ folder in his mental file cabinet. Well, that metaphor got away fro—

 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Stiles moans. His dirty talk has taken a turn for the stupid, but he can’t bring himself to care because Derek has his mouth around Stiles and  _ they haven’t even talked about that yet, fuck. _

“Is it good?” Derek, the little shit, asks. There’s a timidity in his voice that absolutely does not match the surety of his tongue.

 

“Yup. You can do that, uh, again. Lots of—yes. It’s good,” Stiles’ voice cracks and cuts out like it hasn’t since high school. Stiles has to remind himself this is the millionth blowjob he’s probably ever received in his life. There is no reason it should feel so different.

 

But Derek is growing more confident, assured and motivated by the stream-of-consciousness swearing and hushed praise Stiles mutters. Stiles chances a glance down and immediately finds he can’t look away. Derek’s eyes are closed, eyelashes dark and thick against the paleness of his face. Their shadows cast a longer fringe than is probably real, but it frames softly closed lids in a way that has Stiles gasping. There are freckles on Derek’s angular nose, Stiles notices. And Derek’s mouth is pink and open around his cock, eagerly closing around him over and over. When Derek’s eyes open, he slips Stiles out of his mouth and looks up at him. It seems sort of redundant to eye fuck someone who is mid-blowjob, but Stiles is helpless. He cants his hips up and the tip of his dick pushes against Derek’s mouth, smears precum against Derek’s bottom lip. Derek opens his mouth again, slightly, and kisses at the underside of the head.  _ Holy fuck, he sucks his dick like he has a crush on it. _

 

“Is it weird,” Derek pants, nosing up his cock. “That I like the way you taste?”

 

Stiles wants to scream but he settles for biting his own fist, ass bunching up as he humps into Derek’s face. Derek takes it, opens his mouth again and just goes for it.

 

“I’m close,” Stiles can’t manage anything above a whisper. “Where do you--?”

 

Derek sucks harder, eyes watering as he takes him into his throat. He gags and pops off, catching his breath. Stiles is too lost to convince Derek otherwise. Closing his eyes, he swallows and takes him into the back of his throat. He chokes once, twice and then adjusts the angle of his head. He takes Stiles down in a careful swallow and groans when Stiles comes. Stiles is still seeing bursts of color behind his eyes, one fist clenched in the sheets and the other in Derek’s hair.

 

“Sorry about that. I should’ve asked.”

 

“It’s okay,” he hears Derek say, throat dry and voice rough.  _ Fuck _ , that’s one of Stiles’ favorite parts of a blowjob. Hearing a person speak and knowing that rasp is from having had to swallow him down. He peeks down at Derek, who is still motionless between his open legs.

 

There’s come on Derek’s chin and it dribbles down his jaw when he smiles. Stiles groans again and flops back onto the mattress. He’s willing to admit he may be in over his head on this one.

“Can we do this again?” Derek finally asks, question pinging around in his head like a game of Pong. He’s fully dressed again, wearing a different shirt because his own is full of jizz and sweat.

 

Stiles jerks his pants up his legs, zipping them with a swift flick upwards of his fingers. He looks up at Derek, face blank except for a quick twitch of the corner of his mouth. He rolls his shoulders back and Derek is aware he’s staring at Stiles’ chest. Those are some really pretty nipples, okay?

 

“And by  _ this _ you mean?”

 

Derek panics. He knows he can’t expect anything more from Stiles than mutual orgasms and biting kisses that taste like liquor and secrecy. He wants to say “Everything,” and mean everything and  _ more _ . He wants to mutter out, “Nevermind,” and walk out the room. But he thinks maybe he can compromise. He’ll get over whatever crush he has on Stiles and in the meantime, they can get each other off. Right? He knows people do that. Cora’s done that. Isaac and Boyd have done that. Derek can do that, right? He’s trying to think clearly, but there’s a small voice in the back of his head shouting, “ _ He touched your penis!”  _ and waving pompoms. There’s balloons, too, and maybe a marching band.

 

“Um, you know.”

 

Derek doesn’t know. He gestures at their crotches and then promptly drops his hand.  _ What the heck, Derek? _

 

“You mean, like, handjobs?” Stiles asks, surprise and amusement obvious in the way his eyebrows are halfway up his forehead. “Blowies. That sort of stuff?" 

 

Derek doesn’t trust his mouth to speak, so he clamps it shut and nods fervently. He can do this. He can be a ‘friends with benefits’ kind of guy. He’s heard of people doing that and he wants to feel Stiles on him again. Needs to feel Stiles writhe on top of him again. He’ll take it any way he can have it.

 

“I don’t know, Derek,” Stiles looks at the shirt in his hands, turning it over and running his fingers under the hem. He tugs it over his head and looks more certain when his face reappears. “I don’t want to lead you on or—”

 

“Just orgasms,” Derek yells out, mortified. His hands are splayed in front of him, like he could push the impending words back down Stiles’ throat. “We could just do this stuff. No feelings or anything. And we don’t have to tell anybody. Actually, it’d probably be better if we don’t tell anyone. Cora would kill me. And then she’d murder you, too.”

 

Stiles takes a few steps forward and lowers Derek’s hands, fingers loose around his wrists. He smirks and slowly leans in toward Derek’s face, head tilted and eyelids fluttering closed. Derek moves in to kiss his mouth, but Stiles jerks away last minute. Derek schools his face into annoyance, but it feels wrong on his face. Stiles just laughs and slides a finger through one of the belt loops on Derek’s jeans.

 

“Yeah,” he laughs. “No feelings or anything.”

 

Derek glares at him and crosses his arms. After a few seconds of Stiles laughing, Derek stands and pulls Stiles towards him with a tug of his neck. Their mouths crash and Derek feels confident enough to slip his tongue into the kiss. Stiles sighs and Derek can feel the moment when he gives in. Stiles breaks the kiss to take his phone out of his back pocket and hand it over to Derek, eyebrow quirked up in question. Derek saves his number, fingers buzzing in excitement and smile wide on his face. When he hands the phone back, Stiles is watching with a small frown. 

 

“This is going to come back to bite me in the ass,” he surmises with a shake of his head.

 

“Are you into that?” Derek asks, excitement blurring the lines between  _ inside _ and  _ outside _ thoughts again.

 

Stiles tips his head back and lets out a warbling groan. Oh, Derek has  _ so _ got this.

Scott and Jackson end up staying the night at the Zeta house, so Stiles and Danny drive back alone. Danny is perfectly sober, thumbing through music on his iPod. Stiles is staring out the windshield and trying to organize his thoughts before he says anything.

 

Danny beats him to it, “I think this is all a bad idea.”

 

Stiles takes a moment to think, nodding his head and running his tongue along his teeth. He knows, deep down in his gut, what Danny is saying is true. There’s no way, in any universe, where Stiles’ plans for Derek don’t end up shitty for at least half of the people involved. Stiles shouldn’t have hooked up with him tonight, he knows that. At least, not in the way he did. It was warm, fun, and so deeply personal. Stiles doesn’t do  _ personal _ . He can’t. Whatever skewed, removed perception Stiles had going into this, it doesn’t apply anymore: there’s no way Derek comes out of this in one piece. And Stiles finds he  _ cares _ now. He has a face to the name; he knows Derek better now. Knows he’s a good kid, naïve and wholesome. Stiles can’t help but feel like a storybook villain, twirling his moustache as he thinks out plans to defile the kingdom’s princess…or something like that. 

 

“I know,” he admits in the confines of Danny’s car. “God, I know.”

 

“So bow out,” Danny suggests, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like Stiles didn’t just come up with the masterplan a few hours ago. Like he didn’t just let Jackson and the whole fraternity in on the plan on the ride over.

 

Like the Welcome Back party never happened. 

 

“We both know I can’t just bow out, Danny. Not when Jackson’s hell-bent on shitting on Aiden,” Stiles replies, defeated and miserable. He should’ve just left the room. He should never have gotten Derek away from Erica. His stomach turns at the thought.

 

“This isn’t about Jackson. This is about you,” Danny sounds more understanding than accusatory. It’s a kindness Stiles feels he doesn’t really deserve. “I know Aiden is a dick. I know about Welcome Back. I get it. But…this isn’t just you and Cora anymore.”

 

Stiles stiffens in his seat. He remembers the hot flush of shame as a room full of Stanford students laughed at him, catcalling and throwing drinks. He remembers tripping as he tried to pull up his pants; the bruise on his hip had lasted for weeks. He can’t forget the way Cora had stood, front and center, and smiled as Stiles was humiliated in front of a house full of strangers. He’d never thought he’d see her again, but then at Greek Row on the lawn…it all came crashing back.

 

“Danny, don’t. I don’t want—”

 

“I’m not just talking about how Derek’s going to feel after all this. How are you going to feel? Stiles, you put up a good front—a really good one, I’ll give you that—but you’re going to hate yourself if you go through with this.”

 

The car pulls up to the Phi Delt house and Stiles is frozen in place, hand twitching against the seat belt release.

 

“I hooked up with him tonight, Danny,” he admits. The confession is small, quiet. The radio is off, he realizes. “We hooked up and it was…he’s really nice.”

 

Danny’s face falls and he can’t look at Stiles anymore. Stiles nods his head. He takes off the seatbelt, but he doesn’t make a move to get out of the car. ‘I can’t do this,’ is burning its way up his throat. He can’t make the words come out; his mouth hasn’t stopped tasting like vodka punch and spearmint.

“He’s going to make it so easy,” is what comes out instead. He slams the door to make his point and stumbles into his room. He licks his lips, forgoing brushing his teeth, to bring up the taste of Derek’s mouth again.

The next few days are crammed with studying and the white noise of Isaac and Boyd bickering in the background. Derek hasn’t said a word about the ZTA party, letting his roommates believe whatever they want to about the events of that night. Isaac believes Derek made it to third base with Erica in the closet. Boyd thinks Derek spent the night napping in an upstairs room. Derek thinks he’s going to fail his Biochem test. But, regardless, the room is without the tension that had grown after the debacle at Greek Row.

 

Monday morning comes with his 9 a.m. Topics in Biology lecture, i.e.: Stiles. Stiles hasn’t texted him yet, so he doesn’t know his number or how to talk to him. He’s not exactly sure what the next step is, here. In the meantime, Derek is all over the place, trying to plan out what he’ll say or how he’ll act. Boyd takes it all in with a frown on his face and his arms crossed. Leaning against the doorway, he regards Derek with confusion and then…yep, that’s disappointment now.

 

“Derek,” he calls out, “what are you doing?”

 

Derek busies himself with cramming things in his backpack, then with trying to do something with his hair. He knows it’s probably a dead giveaway, but whatever. He can’t look like a bag of snacks now that he’s Stiles’…friend. Er, with benefits.

 

Derek’s got this. He’s prepared. “I’m getting ready for class.”

 

“Why are you wearing…well, that,” Boyd gestures to Derek’s entire being, really. “Actually, what are you wearing?”

 

It’s not too different from what he normally wears, but he regards himself in the mirror thoughtfully. He has his glasses on, not his contacts, because he’s feeling confident today. Instead of his usual windbreaker or sweater, he’s decided on one of Isaac’s soft shirts and a jacket. He doesn’t get the big deal, other than it looks nice but is still really comfortable. He doesn’t know anything about fashion or “dressing for your body type,” (his brother Aaron always looks so well put together), but he does know he doesn’t look as much like a string bean in human form. The pants aren’t so much new as they are new to him; his uncle bought him some higher end jeans about a year ago for Christmas. It says something about Derek that he’s been the same size since high school. He’s not sure what it says, but…well, it says something. Anyway, he wants to look like he’s put in effort, but not enough to really get noticed by too many people.

 

Derek doesn’t really know what to say other than a shaky, “Um, clothes?”

 

Boyd raises an eyebrow and gives him another once-over.

 

“Why the sudden transformation from awkward caterpillar, into a pretty little butterfly?”

 

Derek blushes and grabs his laptop from his desk, bolting towards the door with his head down. He barely makes it to class on time, Boyd at his heels, and of course the only seats in the lecture hall are behind a familiar-looking set of shoulders. Derek apologizes and scoots his way into the row, taking a seat next to Boyd. As he sits, Stiles turns his head and gives him a subtle, albeit quick, once-over. He looks smug, face blank and void of obvious interest; he’s splayed in his seat wearing a backwards baseball cap because it drives Professor Morgan insane. He looks good and apparently, he thinks Derek looks pretty good too. He catches Derek’s eye and then turns around, without another glance.

 

Boyd doesn’t miss a beat, whispering angrily at Derek as soon as the lecture starts up again, “What was that?”

 

Derek shrugs, hoping to look as casual as he was trying to feel. His phone vibrates in his pocket and when he takes it out, he can’t help the small grin that spreads across his mouth.

**From: 5109872215**

**_It’s Stiles. Thursday, meet me in the Science building. Rm 221. What time are you free?_ **

Derek scrambles to reply he gets out of class at 1:20, way over on the other side of campus.

**From: 5109872215**

**_Rm 221. Be there by 1:30, or don’t come at all. Pun intended._ **

Derek swallows loudly and nods, before he realizes that Stiles is in front of him and can’t at all see him. When he looks up, however, Stiles is turned around again and eyeing him carefully. He nods again, slowly, without looking anywhere except Stiles’ face. He’s pretty sure Boyd sees the smirk Stiles sends him. He’s also fairly certain he doesn’t care.

 

He’s got this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the huge gap between the last chapter and this one. I am going to try to be more on the ball, now that my schedule isn't so shitty. As usual, this is unbetad so let me know what mistakes y'all find. Come talk to me on tumblr, if you would so like, or feel free to comment.
> 
> Thanks for reading, guys.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I could wreck you, you know. I could reach in,” the hand travels to Derek’s hip and calloused fingers dip into the waistband of his underwear, “and tear you apart. I’m good at that.”
> 
> Stiles kisses his neck, rubbing his open-mouth against the stubble on Derek’s throat as he speaks. Derek’s knees are weak and he goes easily when Stiles flips them, back now pressed against the cool tabletop.
> 
> “You’d love it,” Stiles whispers into Derek’s mouth, lips wet and warm.
> 
> Derek lunges for the kiss and revels in the hands pulling at his hair. He ignores the voice in his head telling him Stiles is right.

Derek has somehow managed to avoid the topic of last weekend and Monday’s interaction with Stiles for three days now. If he’s being honest with himself, he should’ve expected something to go wrong after Isaac caught him looking up ‘how to give blowjobs’ (“It’s not porn, for the millionth time! Oh my Gosh!”) the morning before. He should’ve known something was going to happen, but now he’s stuck and he’s fuming. Boyd does this thing with his face sometimes: it’s not quite a grimace, not quite a frown. His eyes get all shrewd and _knowing_. Derek hates it more than anything.

This particular time, Derek finally acknowledges him after 5 minutes of passive-aggressive staring. Throwing down his pencil, he tosses his arms out wide and turns around in his uncomfortably small roller chair to face whatever discussion Boyd wants to have.

“What,” Derek grouses. “What. Just _what_.”

Boyd doesn’t seem to blink while he quietly regards Derek- it’s an unnatural and completely irritating gift. Doesn’t shift or fidget, just says, “You slept with him,” like it’s a completely ordinary statement of fact. There’s no accusation (yet) in his tone; it’s not bitten off or spat out. But that’s how Boyd works most of the time: he makes blatant statements, and then assesses the aftermath with a fine-toothed judgment.

Derek blinks in response. Then, he frowns deeply.

“I did not,” he finally mutters. It’s a little too forced out and it’s not very convincing, even Derek knows. He wants to smack himself in the face when he realizes Boyd didn’t even say a name and Derek responded anyway. _Stupid._

Boyd tosses his phone onto his bed and leans back in his chair, arms crossed and face stoic, for round two of confrontation. Derek’s frown turns into an ugly thing as his eyebrows furrow and his jaw clenches. This isn’t Boyd’s business; Derek appreciates the big-brother-posturing, but Derek is the older one here. It’s no one’s job to take care of Derek _except_ _Derek._

Derek opens his mouth to tell him so when Boyd cuts him off, “Even if I had been stupid enough to miss the eye-fucking that’s been going down in class, I know you disappeared Friday night. And I _know_ you didn’t disappear with Erica Reyes.”

Derek doesn’t even feel guilty or ashamed at this point; there’s a sour roiling in his gut that’s making his mouth water and his face heat with indignant rage. What is this, high school? (Derek never went to a real high school, but that’s not the point). And what is Boyd’s problem? So what, some jerk shows interest in Derek and now it’s everyone’s business? Cora doesn’t like him, so now her drama dictates his social life? Derek has a person outside of Cora and his roommates. The quality of the person may not be something to call home about, but he’s _doing something_ without anyone’s help. Derek doesn’t want to lose that.

“Yeah, okay,” Derek admits. Despite the easiness of his admission, his whole body is still tense in his seat. “We hooked up. I ditched Erica at the party, okay? I wanted to hook up with Stiles, so when he offered—I took him up on it. I might be hooking up with him again. I might even have sex with him. Who cares?!”

Boyd seems taken aback by Derek’s honesty for a second. His eyebrows twitch upwards and his mouth slackens in shock, but he schools his expression before Derek can even laugh. He doesn’t even think he’s ever said “hooking up” outside of the context of pickup trucks and hitching trailers. He’s never talked about sex outside of health class.

“This is a mistake, man,” Boyd tries to reason with him; there’s a pitying-borderline-patronizing tone in his voice that sets Derek on edge. “I’m just trying to help you out. Don’t jump down my throat for looking out for you.”

“And I appreciate that. But you don’t know what’s going on, okay? It’s not anything serious. Plus, I’m the older one; I look out for _you_ ,” Derek says before he can really think about it.

Boyd shakes his head and Derek knows he’s not explaining this how he wants.

“Vernon, please,” Derek sighs, exasperated with the paranoia that’s been sitting in his gut all week. “I know what everyone thinks about Stiles. I know what Cora thinks about him. Maybe it’s true; maybe it’s not. Whatever.”

Boyd sits down on the edge of his mattress, leaning forward and shaking his head. When he looks up, he rolls his eyes and glances away from Derek. He’s motioning Derek to continue, so at least he’s listening.

“He’s interested in me. And I think he’s…attractive,” Derek grits his teeth at Boyd’s responding snort. “He also thinks I am attractive.”

The door opens then and Isaac trots in, chattering with Scott. Great. Perfect. Now everyone can hear this and Derek won’t have to send out a memo to anyone interested in the goings-on of his romantic life. Isaac immediately stops talking when he sees Derek and Boyd, still squared off at opposite sides of the room, and Scott’s smile drops off his face.

Isaac is the first to venture out into the unknown, “Are we, uh, okay in here?”

“I don’t know,” Boyd says, heavy with sarcasm. “Why don’t you ask Romeo, here?”

Scott closes the door, thankfully, and everyone’s eyes are now on Derek. Fine, whatever.

“Everything is fine. Whatever this is, between Stiles and me? It’s between _him and me_. And I did it on my own. Without your help. Or Isaac’s help. Or even Cora’s advice. I did this because I wanted to. And it felt good.”

Scott’s eyes widen and his mouth drops, he tries to stammer out an excuse to leave but Isaac isn’t paying any attention to him. Eventually, he decides to lean on the door, uncertain whether he should stay for the remainder of the conversation or escape, and watch from a distance. Isaac’s mouth has not closed since Derek spoke and he’s staring at everyone in the room in flits and glances.

“Thank you for your concern, but I’m handling this. Whether it’s a mistake, Boyd, or a problem or something else—I’ll figure it out. I know I’m not the best with people and making friends; I know I can’t talk to girls or boys like you guys. But I’m going to go through with this...thing. I’m going to figure this out. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t judge me or tattle on me to Cora every time something happens.”

Boyd nods to himself and stands up, Isaac straightening out and following suit. Shaking his head, Boyd pushes past Scott and walks out of the room with a slam of the door. Scott still looks like a cornered animal, watching Derek and Isaac with not a little concern.

Sighing, Isaac pats Derek on the back with one hand and rubs his face with another. “I really hope you know what you’re doing,” he says.

Between the three of them, Derek fights with Isaac more often than he does with Boyd. And that’s only because he hardly ever disagrees with Boyd on…well, on anything. Ever. Derek has known Boyd since he was thirteen years old, can count on one hand all the number of times they’ve seriously fought, and considers him a best friend. Growing up feeling outcasted and sometimes outshined, Derek has always appreciated Boyd’s quieter and more serious demeanor. He’s funny when he wants to be, with his own brand of dry humor. His kindness towards an adolescent-aged Derek never faltered; Boyd had always offered Derek a place to stay when being in his own house was too much. Boyd, in return, appreciates Derek’s loyalty and friendship. Neither of the boys had ever had too many friends, meeting out of convenience and—on Derek’s part—desperation. Things always worked out. This feels different; this is their first _real_ fight.

“I don’t,” Derek admits. “But I’ll be fine.”

He’s got this.

* * *

“Good job, Stilinski,” Finstock screams. “That was a great pitch…for a high school softball pitcher!” 

Stiles rolls his eyes from his place on the mound and spits on a dry patch of dirt by his toe. He can hear Todd laughing from behind his catcher’s mask, can see his mouth move as he comments on it to Matt while he sets up for another pitch. _Fucker_. Not even thirty minutes ago, Stiles had given him the best blowjob of his life in the equipment room. And now the asshole is talking shit. Stiles may be hungover and kind of high, but he’s still outperforming their three other pitchers. He nods at Finstock with a forced smile and catches the ball from Todd. There’s a joke about catchers right on the tip of his tongue, but he catches Todd’s eye and winks instead. Even from behind his mask, Stiles can see the way he stiffens up and drops his eyes. Wide grin stretched across his face, Stiles is setting up for another windup when a siren whoops loudly from the road behind the dugout. He sighs heavily and drops his shoulders as the ball thumps into the dirt.

“Stilinski!” Coach yells out. “You goddamn miscreant. If that’s for you, I swear on my _stepmother’s_ grave—”

“Save it, Coach. We all know it’s for him,” someone yells from the outfield 

“No need to involve Linda,” Stiles snorts. “I’ll be back.”

He jogs off the field, taking off his glove along the way. When he makes his way out of the side door of the field, there’s a police car conveniently waiting for him. His father is leaning on the side of it. 

“I’m going to go ahead and just assume you’re not here to tell me that I pitch like a softball player,” Stiles greets him warmly. “I mean, if Finstock called you here for that, I’d—”

“What is the legal age one may imbibe alcohol in the United States of America?” the Sheriff asks, with what are presumably narrowed eyes and a precariously raised eyebrow. It’s kind of hard to tell through the sunglasses.

Stiles pauses mid-step. Oh, it was one of _those_ visits. The sirens were a little much, now that he thinks about it, but he’ll play along if it gets him out of practice.

“Did you really come over here, unit rolling, just to ask me about federal laws concerning minors and alcohol consumption?”

The Sheriff opens the back of the car and waits for Stiles to get in. Still in his practice uniform and cleats, Stiles drops into the seat and huffs a sigh of annoyance. His dad gets in and, lights still on, and starts driving away from the sports complex. Riding in the back of a cop car kind of loses its novelty when you recognize units by the cracks in the vinyl seats. Sties fidgets and picks at the roof of the car, hot vinyl uncomfortable even through the material of his pants.

“I don’t think it needs to be said,” the Sheriff begins, “that what happened last year cannot happen again.”

“Dad—”

“As a matter of fact, in light of the shit-show that was your freshman year here, I don’t think I’m being unreasonable when I ask you for three things.”

Stiles knows where this is going and he’s starting to sound like a damn birdcall, “ _Dad_." 

“Keep your grades up; above a 3.0. Keep your place on the baseball team; miss no more than two practices a season. Keep yourself out of trouble; no AV’s or write-ups, whatsoever.”

Stiles winces and shrinks down in the backseat. There’s reason for this; his father’s actions aren’t _unwarranted_. Truth be told, his freshman year had been a special kind of clusterfuck of sex, drugs, and alcohol. Stiles wants to blame his fuck-ups on some traumatic event of his past or maybe as a response to his father’s long hours and demanding job, but maybe the truth is Stiles is just a jackass. Maybe he was just bored. Over-privileged, over-experienced, and a shoe-in for the top fraternity on campus: flame, meet tinder.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the Sheriff glances back at Stiles in the rearview mirror. “So you can imagine my disappointment when I heard from a certain deputy that a certain underage student was three times the legal limit at a busted party last night.”

“Dad, it wasn’t even that bad. Richards is full of shit- I was fine,” Stiles complains. This is like high school all over again. “And I’m like four months away from 21. Really?”

The sheriff pulls the car over in front of the campus police station. The lights are finally off, but he’s sitting in driver’s seat with the car idling. It’s not that Stiles isn’t close with his father; the trust is just gone. A father can take his son in for public inebriation and public indecency only so many times before it starts to really become a problem, especially when said father is the Sheriff of the county sheriff’s department. And in charge of the local university’s campus police. Repeated alcohol violations and general shitty behavior landed Stiles on academic probation and suspended from the team. Jackson’s dad had made a case to the Dean and Stiles (by the skin of his teeth) avoided being asked to leave the school.

“It’s my first slip up, Dad,” Stiles mutters from the backseat, fingers picking the steel mesh of the divider. “I didn’t get an AV, no one wrote me up.”

“Because Glenn knows I’d have your ass if you had,” his dad counters.

And, well. He’s got a point.

“For Christ’s sake, Stiles,” his dad rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger in a gesture that Stiles has near-memorized and can imitate flawlessly. “I know you have a certain…image to keep up. I know that fraternity you’re in is a big deal; from what I understand, you have a lot of attention from the ladies…well, and the gentlemen on campus. But, to be honest, I don’t give a shit. You better get your act together, or else I will have to clean it up for you. There are other schools with dry campuses. I know schools where the Greek life is purely academic. Schools farther away and half as expensive. Understood?”

Stiles nods, throat dry and tight from either shame or the running he did at practice. Stiles honestly can’t tell. He’s not going to stop; he and his father both know Stiles is running from too many demons now to stop drinking or fucking around any time soon. He just has to get better at hiding what trouble he gets into.

“Understood,” he agrees.

His dad gets out and opens the door for him, grabbing him by the back of the neck. Stiles yelps and follows him out the back. When he’s upright again, his dad dusts off the red dirt from the seats and shuts the door. Stiles wants to apologize, but he knows he’s going to fuck up again. There’s no way around it, really.

“Have a nice walk back, son,” his dad sighs. He gets back in the car and starts it, pulls away slowly while shaking his head. Stiles swears and starts walking back to the field, shoulders up by his ears and head throbbing in a steady rhythm matching his steps.

* * *

Derek is running late. So incredibly, unbearably late. He’s starting to think this might be a sign or something. His professor kept him after class to interrogate him on the progress of his research and would not stop talking. Now, he’s sprinting across campus trying to make it to the Bio labs on the second floor, where Stiles is waiting for him. Or, should be waiting for him. Hopefully. 

Clambering up the stairs, Derek swerves to the right and manages to find the room. Standing with his hand on the handle of the door, he tries to catch his breath and mop up the sweat that’s broken out on the back of his neck. Finally, accepting that he’s going to look sweaty and red no matter what he does, Derek hangs his head and throws open the door. Stiles is perched on the lab table looking straight at the door, a calculating and curious expression on his face.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Derek blurts, trying to hide how much he’s still panting by faking a deep yawn. It doesn’t work.

Stiles rolls his eyes and slides off the table, his arms still bent at the elbows to support his weight. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes never leave Derek’s face. He spreads his legs when his feet hit the ground and Derek can’t look away from the strip of skin that peaks below the rising hem of Stiles’ shirt. The V of his Adonis belt is like an arrow, pointing straight to his…Derek swallows his breath. When he looks back up, Stiles is grinning easy and wide. Derek gulps.

“What is this, an appointment? Don’t worry about it,” Stiles speaks through his smile but the words feel slow and heavy. “I was thinking maybe you’d forgotten. No, changed your mind more likely. Or maybe you had finally started listening to your friends. What’s your friend’s name? The big, bald dude with the shoulders?”

“Boyd,” Derek answers through a dry throat. “How do you know what my friends say?’

Stiles leans back and laughs, loudly and belly-deep. The long line of this throat catches Derek’s eye and he’s powerless to keep from watching as Stiles’ body curves with his laughter. When Stiles looks back up Derek is bright red—and it’s not entirely from his earlier sprint across campus.

“I know what everyone says about me,” Stiles replies easily, but there’s a note of long-accepted bitterness in his voice. Derek doesn’t like it. “Especially friends of _Cora Hale.”_

Derek has never heard anyone say his sister’s name like that, like it leaves a bad taste in the person’s mouth. Like it’s venom, deserving of being spat out of the person’s mouth before it can do any more damage. Trying to understand, he takes a step towards Stiles, who is watching him warily. Derek’s instantaneously reminded of the summer he spent at his Uncle Glen’s ranch in the mountains. He had been playing with his uncle’s hunting dogs when he had stumbled into tall grass and found a rattlesnake. Aaron had told him once what to do if he ever found a snake; he’d frozen in place and walked so carefully and slowly around it. He remembers the stiffness in his legs and the way the snake had tracked his movements, tensed and ready to spring. Derek also remembered the pulsing excitement in his body; the way the adrenaline had made his muscles clench and feel like jelly when he reached the house. Everything about that day is mirrored in the room, now: facing a beautiful boy with a sharp smile and venom in his fingertips.

“It’s not any of their business,” Derek says clearly. He swallows as he approaches Stiles, carefully and slowly. He’s approaching the rattlesnake this time, coming closer to striking distance instead of trying to back away into the safety of a distant front porch. “It’s not anyone else’s business who you are or what you choose to do, Stiles.”

Stiles regards him coolly for a moment. The relaxed candor from when Derek walked into the room has disappeared from his body, leaving hard lines and tensed limbs in its place. After a second’s hesitation, Stiles reaches out to pull Derek in by his pockets. Nose-to-nose, Stiles looks up at Derek and smiles, sharp and dangerous. This close, Derek can almost taste the sweat on his skin and the traces of pot on his breath. Stiles smells like sunlight and salt; like expensive cologne and desperation. It’s more appealing than anything Derek has ever encountered before. When he leans forward and brushes his lips against Derek’s chin, Derek’s eyes flutter close and he gasps in surprise. Stiles trails barely-there presses of lips and teeth against his jaw and across his cheek until he comes to the soft, tender skin below Derek’s ear. After a harsh bite to the skin, he whispers—voice barely a rasp, “What if everything they say about me is true?”

Derek feels a hand on his neck and the thumb of another running up the inseam of his jeans. His breath is shakier now, like trying to breathe through icy lungs.

“I could wreck you, you know. I could reach in,” the hand travels to Derek’s hip and calloused fingers dip into the waistband of his underwear, “and tear you apart. I’m good at that.”

Stiles kisses his neck, rubbing his open-mouth against the stubble on Derek’s throat as he speaks. Derek’s knees are weak and he goes easily when Stiles flips them, back now pressed against the cool tabletop.

“You’d love it,” Stiles whispers into Derek’s mouth, lips wet and warm.

Derek lunges for the kiss and revels in the hands pulling at his hair. He ignores the voice in his head telling him Stiles is right.

* * *

Derek kisses like he’s starved for it. Stiles swallows down the grunts and whimpers pressed into his lips, uses his tongue to taste and claim. He has Derek spread out beneath him on the black surface of the lab table, the once-cool resin now warm and beaded with moisture from their combined sweat. It’s awesome, is what it is.

The hickies he bites into Derek’s skin, blooming beautifully on the tan expanse of his neck and Stiles revels in marking him. Mid-nip, he feels a hand slide down the back of boxers. He smiles into warm skin and breathes out a rough-sounding chuckle.

“You sure are ambitious there, Der-bear,” he breathes out. Derek stills underneath him with a huff of indignation. Stiles cracks open a heavy eyelid and peeks at Derek, smile spreading across his mouth. Once he sees him, flushed and flustered, Stiles decides he’s done playing around. Derek’s shirt flies off before Stiles even realizes his fingers are clenched in the soft hem. Stiles’ fly is unzipped and then Derek’s belt is pulled out of the loops of his ridiculous Nordstrom jeans. In a soft, confusing whirlwind of cotton and denim, Stiles finally finds Derek’s bare skin. He can’t help the groan that escapes him.

“Whu—,” Derek bites off a deep moan, “What do you want?”

Stiles answers his question by dropping to his knees, eyes on Derek’s for the entirety of his slide towards the floor. He feels out of his body, loose and warm from the bowl he’d smoked earlier. When he’d gotten back to the field, he’d headed straight to the locker room and then his dorm. Scott hadn’t asked a single question when he packed a bowl and disappeared into his room. He needed the disconnect a steady high would give him; he needed to feel warm and weightless. He needed this, now. 

He licks a crooked line up the front of Derek’s boxers, linty and thin from years of wear. Through the pheromone and THC-induced daze in his mind, Stiles makes a mental comparison of his own underwear: expensive, well-fitted briefs he’d gotten as a gift from someone. They’re a little obnoxious for his taste, but the way Derek’s staring down at him has him reconsidering their merit. Derek’s eyes are wide and his cheeks are red, flushed with embarrassment or excitement? Stiles doesn’t stop to think about it.

Slowly and with steady hands, Stiles slides the worn elastic waistband from Derek’s hips. He’s slimmer than Stiles remembers, but maybe it’s the harsh glow from the lab room’s fluorescent bulbs. The shadows on his body seem exaggerated and Stiles wants to touch, see if the inky blackness on smooth skin feels like velvet or warm marble. He can’t decide where to start, so on impulse he pushes Derek down on the tabletop again and mouths around the planes of the stomach bared under him. Derek’s is warm and sweat-salty; Stiles needs more of the taste in his mouth, on his tongue, so he kisses and bites his way up to Derek’s collarbones. He palms Derek roughly, a little too dry, as he kisses him again just to hear the sounds he’ll make. The choked off groan does not disappoint.

Stiles reaches around to the open drawer in the lab bench and pulls out a packet of lube. He’s been using this lab as a place to hook up in since his freshman year; he claimed this bench halfway through the first semester, after he fucked Candice Capley on it after Geology lab. It’s gotten to the point where _not_ storing condoms and lube in his equipment drawer is actually less convenient than hiding it for every equipment inspection. Stiles wonders at his priorities sometimes.

Slicking up his palms, he takes Derek in hand and gives a slow, twisting tug. Derek groans and Stiles can hear the telltale thunk as Derek’s head falls against the tabletop. Stiles works him thoroughly and slowly; he can feel himself getting off on just getting Derek off. For a steady handjob, this feels a lot more erotic than it should. Stiles has really checked off every number on his sexy bucket list, but his feels like something he missed. The warmth of Derek’s skin and the enthusiasm that translates into his shamelessness: it’s incredible. Derek is so different, here and now, than he was at the party. His timidity and anxiety are barely making themselves known.

“Please,” Derek pants. “Stiles, please.”

“What do you want?” Stiles asks. He nips Derek’s stomach, just to the side of his bellybutton, and places a kiss there. He wants to do so much, now that Derek seems to be settling into his skin. He wants to pick him apart; he wants to reach in and lay claim, ruin Derek for anyone else. The possessiveness catches Stiles off guard, makes me him want to bite and claw at Derek’s skin. He wants to damage and bruise. Derek’s skin is a blank canvas that Stiles needs to paint it with his teeth, nails, and fingertips.

“Your mouth?” Derek breathes in question. It sounds like he’s embarrassed to ask for what he wants. Stiles risks a glance upwards and feels his breath catch in his throat. Derek’s chest is turning red and the muscles in stomach are twitching. Derek picks his head up and glances downward, biting at his bottom lip. There’s a bead of sweat traveling from his hairline, down his forehead and along an eyebrow. Stiles surges upwards and licks it up with his tongue, less because he feels compelled to taste and more to see Derek’s reaction. The intake of breath and the hands that come up to grip his sides, fingers digging into his ribs, don’t disappoint.

“I got you, baby,” Stiles whispers along the side of Derek’s face. “I’m gonna make you feel so, so good.”

Derek’s responding blush is hot under Stiles’ mouth; Stiles swears he can almost taste it as he runs his mouth down the side of Derek’s cheek, to his jawbone. He bites at the corner of his jaw, mouthing at the stubbled skin. He makes his way back down to the floor, nipping and biting in alternating intensity along the way. There’s a rough looking bruise near Derek’s left nipple that Stiles remembers Derek whimpering at when he made it. It makes him shiver to see it bloom, shades of red and lavender bleeding into the pale skin.

Stiles doesn’t hesitate once he’s eye-level with Derek’s groin. He surges in and lays one last bite next to Derek’s hip. When Derek hisses out a breath from clenched teeth, Stiles laps at the underside of Derek’s cock. One long stripe, then he sucks in the head. It’s flushed a pretty red and already wet, pre-come having left a sticky, glossy trail on Derek’s stomach. He hollows out his cheeks and takes him in all the way into his mouth. He waits to swallow him down, wanting to save that until he really gets into it. He trained himself out of his gag reflex during his junior year of high school and it’s always such a crowd pleaser.

Bobbing his head, Stiles alternates between swipes of his tongue and hard sucking motions with his whole mouth. He loves blowjobs and he decides he loves giving _Derek_ blowjobs. Derek’s hips are rolling in little circles, following Stiles’ mouth with an inexperienced eagerness. Stiles loves it. Loves every hitching movement and every panted breath. He reaches upwards and take Derek’s hand from it’s white-knuckled grip on the side of the table and guides it to the back of his head. Making sure to tangle his fingers into his hair, Stiles shows Derek how to pull at it. Derek takes over after a few bumbling seconds of awkward grabbing and Stiles moans at the sensation. Derek makes a sound like he’s choking and his back arches up a little. Closing his eyes, Stiles takes Derek out of his mouth and licks his lips. Derek whines, back slapping against the table as he catches his breath. Stiles feels bad for about two seconds before his the throbbing in his dick reminds him he needs to get his pants off, STAT.

“I have the most brilliant idea,” he says, throaty and low. He loves the sound of his blowjob voice. And he’s loving what it does to Derek.

“Uh,” Derek responds with equal parts arousal and unease.

* * *

Derek blinks owlishly at Stiles once he’s done explaining what he wants him to do. Sure, he’s seen that in porn before- but that’s  _porn_ . Not real life; people cannot possibly do that in real life. Then again, this is Stiles.

“What,” he chokes.

“Just trust me,” Stiles answers, ripping off his shirt and bunching his pants and underwear until he can kick them off his legs. His socks are toed off and then he’s climbing on top of Derek. “I’ve done this, like, hundreds of times.”

Derek grimaces briefly at the reminder. It’s one thing to know one’s sexual partner (he can almost hear Isaac laughing at him in his head) has been with a tomes-length list of people before you, but it’s another thing entirely to have it thrown in your face.

“I’m sure you have,” he responds testily. “But I haven’t. So excuse me for not having the experience of a freakin’ pornstar.”

Stiles’ responding guffaw is so sudden it actually takes Derek by surprise. His mouth pulls into a frown and he’s just about to get off the stupid table when Stiles mashes his mouth sloppily onto his. Stiles continues to laugh throughout the whole kiss and Derek can’t seem to stop frowning. Although he’s tempted when Stiles climbs, naked, into his lap.

“Your refusal to speak a single swear word is simultaneously the most—” he kisses him again, “hilarious and,” and again, “hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Derek gives in and opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, even feeling brave enough to swipe his tongue along Stiles’ top lip. He’s still annoyed, but the compliment is enough to make him want to get his hands on Stiles again. He’s distracted enough that he’s genuinely surprised when Stiles stops kissing him and flips them over.

“This’ll be easier with you on top,” he explains. “You should probably turn around, now.”

Derek’s blush is back in full force and he shakily raises himself up on trembling arms. He’s nervous and kind of embarrassed, but he’s also so turned on it hurts. Stiles slaps his ass as he turns to face Stiles’ feet. He’s infinitely grateful his face is out of view, but he’s pretty sure his tensed shoulders and bright red ears are a dead giveaway. There’s no chance of the blush dissipating any time soon as Stiles grabs each of Derek’s asscheeks in hand. Derek groans and covers his face with his hands.

“God, I love making you blush,” Stiles confesses, continuing to palm and grope at Derek. “Makes me feel like I’m going to soil the virtue of a Disney princess or something. It’s kind of hot.”

“Has anyone ever told you how fu—messed up you are?” Derek snaps, staring resolutely at Stiles’ leg hair. Stiles’ hands stop moving. 

“Did you just _almost_ a bad word?” Stiles feigns a gasp of shock as he speaks. He slaps Derek’s ass again, harder this time, and then lets out a deep belly-laugh. “What a bad boy, you are.”

As Stiles laughs, Derek leans down and bites the soft, pale skin of Stiles’ inner thigh—making sure to pinch the skin between his teeth. Stiles’ laughter cuts off with a high, squeaky grunt. Derek smiles against the skin and bites it again, taking more of the muscle between his teeth and licking the red skin afterwards. Stiles groans and places a kiss just below Derek’s ass, where it meets his thigh.

“Man wants to get down to business,” Stiles says quietly, sounding impressed. Derek can’t see him, so he’s not sure. “I can respect that.”

Derek needs Stiles to shut up before he ends up talking him out of going through with this, so he leans forward and sucks the head of Stiles’ cock into his mouth. He’s considerably less sober this time around, so he makes sure to enjoy it; he notes the way Stiles throbs against his tongue, the stretch of his lips as he bobs his head. Stiles takes a moment to grunt in appreciation before he’s pulling Derek’s dick towards his mouth. Derek loses track of his body for a moment, reveling in the taste of Stiles in his mouth and the feeling of Stiles’ mouth as he works at Derek. It feels like they are two ends of a string, coming undone as an unseen hand pulls them apart. He feels them unwinding, faster and faster as they hurtle towards the point where they come together. No pun intended.

Stiles’ hands come up to pull apart his ass and Derek only has a moment to be startled out of his thoughts, when a slick finger traces around the rim of his hole. Derek surges forward and accidentally chokes himself on Stiles, pulls backwards to catch his breath. Stiles shushes him and takes him back into his mouth, sucking and bobbing as he continues to rub his finger in small circles. Derek feels Stiles swallow him down and work his finger inside him at the same time. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt and the intimacy has him heaving out his breath. He takes Stiles in hand and resumes blowing him with a newfound eagerness, trying to distract himself from coming in the next five seconds.

Stiles stops working his finger inside him to spit into the crease of Derek’s ass, sliding two in with the added slickness. It makes him feel dirty, but Derek surprises himself with how much it also turns him on. Palm pressed against his balls and thumb rubbing at his perineum, Stiles crooks his fingers and Derek swears he almost blacks out. Honestly, he’s never done this to himself; he never even knew that spot would be something he wanted touched like this. Theoretically speaking, he knows what a prostate is. He’s seen it in textbooks in Anatomy and heard about it in vulgar conversations between Boyd and Isaac. It’s pretty much been the star of his favorite pornos, but actually finding out how his own feels? Derek can’t even verbalize it correctly. It feels how the grey and black pixelated screen at the end of VHS tapes sounds. The roaring static is building in his belly, volume and intensity increasing as Stiles’ fingers move inside him.

He’s trying to keep his mind on the task at hand…and er, mouth. Stiles hips are canting upwards towards him and moving in a rocking motion. Derek has his hand of the base of Stiles’ cock and he’s working his mouth on wherever he can get it. He’s using his tongue and moaning around Stiles, trying desperately to get him off. If the trembling in Stiles’ legs is anything to go by, he’s doing a pretty okay job.

“Please,” he whispers when he slips Stiles out of his mouth to jerk him, his grip tight and rough just how he likes it. “Come, please come. _Stiles_.”

And with that, the hips below him still suddenly before surging upwards. Stiles pops his mouth off of Derek with a guttural moan and his whole body strains upward, the muscles in his legs tensing and flinching as he scrabbles against the table top. There’s less than a split second for Derek to even think about getting his mouth back on him, so he misses the first bit of come and he feels it hit the corner of his mouth and drip onto his chin. He gets his mouth back on Stiles’ dick, sucks at the sensitive head and takes in what he can. Derek’s basking in the triumph of successfully getting Stiles off, when the man in questions starts moving again. He goes all out, slipping another finger alongside the first two and crooking them almost right away—nailing Derek’s prostate with determined precision. Derek cries out and shifts his weight onto his elbows so he can push back against that searing-hot pressure. He’s chasing Stiles’ fingers with his hips, forehead pressed to Stiles’ shins and mouth dropped open. He’s vaguely aware of the “ah ah ah”s his traitorous mouth can’t keep in. The little broken sounds seem to be pushed out of his throat every time Stiles’ fingers sink into him, but he doesn’t have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed. 

“C’mon,” Stiles grunts. “C’mon, Derek. I want you to come. Come on me, do it. Jus—” 

Derek is silent as his orgasm careens through his entire body. This is nothing like his quick jerk-off sessions when the room is empty in between classes. Even that night at the party has nothing on the immensity of what is happening to Derek’s body. The static Derek felt escalates until Derek can’t hear anything at all. Derek sees white, presses his open mouth to Stiles’ leg and feels himself droop with relief. He’s panting, floating in the afterglow, wondering if everyone feels like this after the first time someone’s touched them like this. 

“Jesus,” he hears Stiles say through pants. “I know I’m good, but fucking hell. You just—that was. Wow.”

Derek chuckles and freezes when he still feels Stiles’ fingers inside him. He blushes and hunches his shoulders as Stiles chuckles and slips them out. Trying to regain feeling in his legs, he tries to maneuver himself out of Stiles’ crotch and into a slumped over kind of sitting position. It half works and he has to steady himself on Stiles’ hip before he can manage it.

“I did okay, then?” he finally asks when he’s caught his breath. “I mean, well—I know you, you know, but it was okay?”

Stiles shakes his head and sits up, grabbing Derek’s arm as he does so. He kisses him chastely and swings off the table.

“It was good,” he says as he uses his underwear to wipe off his chest and neck. Derek flushes when he sees the mess he’s made of Stiles. “ _You_ were good. Better than good. And you’ll be even better the next time we do this.”

And that sobers Derek up: realizing he’s just some plaything to Stiles. The way Stiles says it makes it sound so ordinary. Like he’s tutoring Derek: just casually meeting up to help him earn higher grades in _fucking_. It’s the first time he’s ever thought the word and Derek feels it like a brick to the face. This _is_ supposed to be casual. Whatever you want to call it. Hooking up. Friends with benefits. Fucking around. By definition, it’s supposed to be casual—no strings attached, all of that. In the midst of a mind-blowing orgasm, Derek had forgotten he didn’t actually get to be the only feeling this with Stiles. He hasn’t been the only one, probably not even recently if the rumors are true. He feels like an idiot, but he tries putting on a brave face.

“By the time you’re done with me, I’ll probably be a better lay than you are,” he says with a chuckle. He says it with a grin but it feels like his teeth will shatter with how hard he’s biting down to keep it together. He says it like a joke; thinks if he can make this joke, he can be fine. Casual. Derek can be casual.

Stiles’ head jerks up to look at him and his mouth pulls down at the corners. Derek shakes off the weight of his revelations and he follows suit, picking up his clothes and wiping himself off with one of his socks. He waits to take a deep breath until he’s slowly pulling his shirt over his head. Face covered with cheap cotton, he inhales as he closes his eyes and tries to blow it all out without crying. Fully clothed, he realizes how stupid it was to use his sock to clean himself up. He grits his teeth and slides on his shoes over his one sock. He can’t bring himself to care, sticks the dirty one in his pocket.

“I think I liked it better when you didn’t almost swear or make sex jokes,” Stiles says truthfully, leaning against the table. The surface is still sticky with sweat and Derek can still see the dark impression of Stiles’ silhouette on it. Something about the image pulls at his chest and he has to look away, has to stare at his one sock. _Stupid_ , he thinks to himself. 

“Text me when you want me next,” Derek says to his shoes and one sock. He pushes into Stiles’ space and kisses him roughly. He doesn’t put a hand on him, doesn’t look at him when he breaks the kiss. He’s out the door before he can hear the reply.

* * *

Stiles lets out a frustrated yell and tosses his textbook on the floor. He can’t concentrate on anything. The words drip off the page, letters floating and crashing into one another until they make new words.  _Fake. User. Selfish. Dick._ He can’t seem to disagree with any of them; he can’t seem to feel bothered by any of them. He knows what he’s doing with Derek is wrong. Knows Derek will get hurt, resent him. Hate him. But he can’t seem to care about it. Maybe it’s best for him, in a way. He’ll get good sex out of it. Some experience with someone who has nothing else to offer except experience. Maybe Derek will even learn not to trust people so quickly. Openly. Blindly.

“Hey, dude,” Scott knocks on the door as he comes in. “You busy?”

Stiles shakes his head, flings his hand outwards and gestures at the book on the floor. He continues staring at the ceiling as Scott walks in and shuts the door. There’s rustling and thumping as Scott gets himself situated and he feels the mattress dipping down when Scott sits on his bed by his feet.

“I know you’re tired of hearing this from me,” he begins, “dude, I’m tired of saying it.”

Stiles shuts his eyes. He already knows.

“You need to stop this thing with Derek.”

Stiles rolls over, faces the wall. After Friday, Danny had dropped the subject. He hasn’t said a word about Derek, instead settling for knowing looks and narrowed-eyed glances whenever Jackson or someone else mentions him. Scott, however, won’t let it go. He knows Stiles well enough to know he can play on his guilt if he constantly reminds him he actually has a conscience. It’s worked before. Stiles isn’t sure if he wants it to work now.

“In his room, earlier today, I heard him talking about you,” Scott continues. He reaches up to run his hands through his hair, pulls at it in a gesture Stiles knows means he’s stressed. “I don’t want to be a bad guy, Stiles, and I don’t think you do either. I‘m friends with his friends. I know him better, now. He’s a nice guy; he’s funny, smart, and really nice. You could be friends with him. Maybe, I don’t know, date him for real.”

Stiles jerks and turns over at that, glaring at Scott. This was playing dirty and Scott knows that. Scott ignores Stiles’ obvious touchiness and keeps going. “We can’t do this to him. I can’t sit back and watch you set him up like this. I don’t know what the fuck Cora Hale did to you to make you so fucking worked up, but it can’t be bad enough to get Derek kicked out of school. It’s not worth it. It can’t be!”

“You don’t know a thing about it!” Stiles yells, angry and panicked. His fists are clenched and he can feel his nails digging into the soft parts of his palms. There was a time when his hands were soft and gentle, but he can’t remember when that was. He looks down at them, sees the callouses and scars; he picks at the remnants of a blister, wincing at the sensitivity of the fresh, pink skin. 

He takes a deep breath before speaking again, calmer this time. “You can’t understand because you don’t know.”

Scott moves closer and rests a steadying hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t say, “Tell me,” but the meaning behind his actions is understood. Another breath, a twist of his neck to wring out the stiffness as it cracks; Stiles tries to make himself comfortable in his own body. He pushes against Scott until he can sit next to him on the edge of the bed.

“It was the summer before freshman year. Remember that huge party at Jackson’s parents’ place, in Stanford?” he licks his lips, bites at the dry skin there. “I was so stoked to go; it was my first real college party, I was pretty much a guaranteed pledge for Phi Delt. Everyone was there: upperclassmen, lowerclassmen. UCBH kids, Berkeley kids, Stanford kids. Everyone. It was going to be a blast. I’m drinking real booze, not just shitty wine coolers or whatever, and hanging out with hot college people. You were wasted an hour after getting there, so I kind of wandered around. I met Cora out by the poolside bar. I thought she was cute, she was checking me out. Figured it’d be a for sure deal. I walked over and we started talking. I had hooked up with some girls over summer, so my confidence was at an all time high. Everything was cool until she learned my name. The second she learns my name, she just ices me out. Starts talking about how her sorority sisters told her I was an asshole who slept with a bunch of girls for shits and grins. I’m trying to tell her it’s not true, trying to save the whole fucking mess that’s happening and calm her down. I go to pat her shoulder or some bullshit and she full on punches me in the face!”

“So, you hate her because she punched you when you were being overly touchy?” Scott says, doubtfully. He looks at Stiles with carefully hidden disdain on his face. Stiles knows him too well, so he sees it anyway. He continues speaking, wrings his hands as he talks.

“I recognize a lost cause when I see one, so I leave her alone to go get some drinks. I’m pretty hammered a few hours later when this guy comes up to me. I wasn’t really sure if I wanted to be out yet; I wasn’t out in high school, remember? No one really knew, other than who I screwed around with. But they weren’t out either, so it was just understood that no one talk about it. Beacon Hills High is a small town high school, word travels fast: we were all kind of scared. But this was _college_ ; this was my time to figure myself out and be whoever I wanted. So an older guy coming up to me, interested, good looking, sweet-talking me? It seemed like a no-brainer.”

“Oh, Stiles,” Scott’s face is draining of color.

“He leads me up to a room and we start kissing, he leads me to the bed. We’re making out and taking off each other’s clothes, whatever,” he tries to stay as vague as possible, not wanting to describe that night in too much detail. Whether it’s for Scott’s sake or his own, he’s not really sure.

“We’re getting hot and heavy and I’m just so stoked that this is happening, I don’t notice the door opening. Apparently, it was all planned. There was someone in the room who opened the door while we’re mid-fuck and there’s a bunch of people outside. The guy is laughing and rolling off me and I’m naked, trying to cover myself up and look for my clothes. Everyone is laughing, there are some people taking pictures and videos on their phone. Someone’s asking who the fuck the freshman trying to sleep with so-and-so’s boyfriend is. Someone yells out my name. It’s a nightmare.”

“Stiles, what the fuck—”

“I manage to get my clothes on and when I push through the crowd, the first laughing face I recognize is Cora Hale: face lit up with a fucking smile. I find out later, someone was in the room recording the whole thing. That same person recorded beforehand a bunch of people waiting down the hall, planning to catch some ‘slutty freshman’ in the act and put him in his place after he tried to do something shady with some girl. That video was everywhere within days; my name and face was everywhere at Stanford and Berkeley. Only reason it didn’t spread like herpes here was because Jackson’s dad shut that shit down. A lot of people know, though. Through word of mouth or friends who were there. Or they were there. That stupid fucking video was how I came out.” 

Scott’s shaking his head hands covering his face. Stiles kicks at the carpet for something to do, waiting for Scott’s reaction. 

“I knew about the video,” Scott says after a few minutes of silence. “I’d heard about it, but I swear to God I didn’t know it was you. I knew some guy got kicked out of Stanford because of it, but I didn’t know it was you in the video. Oh, fuck, Stiles. That’s so, so shitty. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell anyone? Does Jackson know?”

“Jackson doesn’t know it was me, specifically. Just some freshman UCBH kid; his dad can’t tell him otherwise he’d breach client confidentiality. And I didn’t tell you because I was so fucking embarrassed and ashamed. I just didn’t want to tell anyone else who didn’t have to know. And then Cora comes up to me at fucking Greek open house. She basically admits he was the one who did it; she was a fucking senior in high school and ruining my life was her initiation into her sorority. _That’s_ why she didn’t have to rush. _That’s_ why she’s so fucking popular on campus. My miserable fucking freshman year is the reason her life is perfect.” 

Scott is shocked into silence, his hand is still on Stiles’ shoulder but it feels cold and heavy. Stiles shrugs it off and slips off the bed. Toeing on his shoes, he grabs his jacket and throws open the door. He can’t be in the room anymore, can’t handle Scott’s pity or sympathy. He can’t handle anything real. What he needs is a distraction. He sends a text to the first number he sees on his messages history, doesn’t realize until it’s too late that it’s Derek’s number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a mess; sorry for the loooong gap.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You don't tell me what to do," he says quietly, surprised at how calm and serious he comes across. "Cora can do whatever she wants. Isaac. Boyd. I don't care. But not. You. You don't get to do that to me."
> 
> Stiles smirks, "I thought you liked it when I told you what to do, Derek."
> 
> "Just because I—just 'cause we're involved," his molars grind when Stiles' smirk widens into a smile, "doesn't mean you get to have a say in what I do."
> 
> "Involved? What exactly do you think is going on here?" Stiles points back and forth between their bodies. He shoves at Derek, trying to make a point. "I'm not your boyfriend. I want you in my frat to piss off your sister and her Neanderthal boy toy. You want your sister to stop treating you like shit. Somewhere in there, we’re hot for each other and I’m not one to turn away from the promise of shared orgasms. What's there to be upset about?"
> 
>  
> 
> ...A lot, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware, Stiles has sex in this scene and is not comfortable in the aftermath with his decision. For those sensitive to these things, he does in fact consent and is aware of what he's doing at all times. His guilt and shame has to do with his feelings for Derek, not with his consent during the sex that occurs. There's alcohol and mentions of Stiles having taken pills, which will be addressed in the next chapter. Be aware guys and be safe when reading.

The first real event of Greek recruitment is a weekend barbeque and mixer on the front lawn. Isaac explains how the day works to Derek, who takes in the massive amount of people with wide eyes and stiff limbs. He doesn’t particularly like large groups of people. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t particularly like fraternities either. But his friends, his family, his _mom_ all sound so proud of him whenever he mentions any of it. He’s gloriously stuck at this point.

“As per house rules, the following weeks will mostly consist of parties and kissing ass. You need to impress the houses you want to pledge,” Isaac explains. His sandals slap on the concrete and Derek thinks about how it sounds like a metronome. How commanding can you be while wearing bright pink flip-flops, really?

“When we get to the lawn, you’re going to get a card. It tells the board and organizations which frat or sorority you’re interested in pledging. When you start going to parties, frat-sponsored ones, you’ll get party tallies. Those cards are basically a way of making sure the CPA board doesn’t complain. Ensures recruitment is ‘fair and nonbiased’. Whatever. You go to a minimum of 5 Greek events, from at least 3 different organizations. These events are invite-only and you have to show proof that you went.” 

“Proof?” Derek asks. “And wait, how do you know so much if you never rushed before?” 

“A token or a gift, just something that proves you were at the event,” Scott chimes in. “And uh, I might have filled him in…uh, on some information.”

Isaac blushes and shoots Scott a fond look. He and Scott have been spending a lot of time together. Derek’s not quite sure what to think of it. Sometimes, Scott’s on-again-off-again girlfriend is there (Allison? Derek thinks). Sometimes, it’s just Scott and Isaac. He wouldn’t think too much of it if it weren’t for the fact that he’s nearly walked in on things… _intimate things_. Derek thinks there might be some kind of threesome, polyamorous thing going on—but he’s not judging, so he doesn’t say anything. Good for Isaac.

“The three organizations you choose should include the frats you’re most seriously considering pledging. You go and talk to brothers, there. Network, flirt, suck up: make an impression. No one will take you if you don’t try to make a name for yourself. Luckily, you’re a Hale- so you already have a leg up.”

Derek almost slams into a kid carrying a stack of books; he apologizes and catches up to Scott. “Hale? What-how is that important?” 

Isaac raises an eyebrow. It’s a very condescending eyebrow _._  

“You’re Cora’s brother,” Scott clarifies. “Everyone knows Cora.”

By the time they’re done giving Derek a rundown of the day, their group has reached the lawn. Scott dips in and pecks Isaac on the cheek, waves to Derek, and runs over to a crowd of guys Derek assumes is the Phi Delta Psi group. He adamantly refuses to admit he scans the group for Stiles. Boyd, who had been silent the entire walk, and Isaac jump into the crowd as well, barely sparing Derek a second glance. Meanwhile, a pretty girl with curly, shoulder-length hair walks up to Derek and hands him a card. There are boxes and lines, choices to circle from: entirely too much for Derek to look at all at once. He’s just about ready to go back to his room and forget about the whole thing, when a hand grabs his arm. Derek spins around, ready to demand to be left alone. He’s met with a familiar grin. 

“You doing alright?” Stiles asks coyly. Derek nods and then reconsiders. He shakes his head no. 

“Follow me,” Stiles whispers into his ear. He punctuates the last word with a sharp nip to one of Derek’s ears and Derek is helpless to resist the pull at his arm.

He’s led to the side of the brick building by the lawn, where the two of them are hidden amongst the white columns and the shadows they cast in the afternoon sun. It’s a perfect spot to make out and Derek’s stomach flutters and turns as he considers all the times Stiles has come here with someone who isn’t Derek. The feeling only has a second to catch the breath in his throat before Stiles crashes their mouths together.

Derek has lost track of the number of times he’s been roped into a hook up in the previous weeks since Stiles had called him, breathless and upset. Derek hadn’t asked questions, just opened the door and swept Stiles into the room. After trading desperate handjobs, Stiles had napped for a bit and then left without a word. Since then, Derek’s learned not to expect him to stay. Stiles breezes in and out of people’s lives when he needs a distraction or someone to punish; Derek’s still not under any illusions because he knows what this is, what they are. He tells himself he’s just along for the ride.

“God, you taste good,” Stiles murmurs, panting. His voice is syrupy-sweet and Derek mouths at his lower lip like he can taste the words before they came out. He sighs contentedly and goes back in for another kiss, licking into Stiles’ mouth and pushing his hands up the back of his shirt. He’s chasing the taste of Stiles’ last drink and the familiar tang of the joint Stiles must have just smoked. Stiles reaches into his back pockets and gets a handful of Derek’s ass, squeezing as he pushes his thigh between Derek’s legs.

When Stiles moves to take his hands out of his back pockets, Derek pushes in closer and groans into Stiles’ mouth. There’s the sound of a zipper and Stiles’ hand is making its way inside of Derek’s boxers. Derek is quick to fumble his way down to Stiles’ fly and return the favor. He tries muffling his groans, bitten-off whimpers and throaty pleas, by mouthing marks and bruises along Stiles’ neck. Stiles moans in appreciation and spits into his palm, reaching back into Derek’s pants and quickening his pace: the sounds between them are loud and dirty, echoing in the empty hall. Tilting his head back against the wall, Derek shivers as he lets his eyes close. Feeling brave, he flicks his wrist and slicks his wet palm over the soft, smooth head of Stiles’ dick. The guttural sound at his ear has him spitting up more precome in Stiles’ palm, the warmth seeping down the inside of his thighs. Soon, he’s caught in the burning feedback loops that start up every time they get their hands on each other.

“Hurry up,” Derek chokes. “We’re gonna—someone’s gonna see us.”

Stiles laughs and his body shakes with it. “That’s what makes it fun,” he murmurs. “Get me off faster.”

Derek groans and muffles a laugh in his free palm. “I’m trying my best here,” he says and tightens his grips, speeds up his hand. Stiles pushes into Derek’s chest and sloppily fucks into the grip of Derek’s hand. There’s no façade anymore, no mask to behind. The sharp edges of Stiles’ ego are still there, but Derek finds he’s not as careful to handle them anymore. The way Stiles shakes against him has Derek going out of his mind with want and trying to keep quiet. It’s only a handful of minutes before he lets out a sharp sound between his teeth, feels the warm splatter on his stomach and on Stiles’ hand. Stiles doesn’t reply, just cries out and comes on Derek’s stomach and wrist. He looks Derek in the eye and licks a swipe up with his fingers. Derek sags against the column at his back and laughs weakly.

“You’re going to kill me,” he pants, wiping his hand on the shirt Stiles hands him. It takes him a second to realize Stiles is now shirtless and smirking at him. In a moment of courage (or weakness, depending on how you look at it), Derek strips his own shirt off his back and tosses it at Stiles’ face. He catches it and wipes off his stomach and hands before tucking it into the back pockets of his shorts. Derek buttons his pants up and does the same, looking up to see Stiles eyeing up and down his body.

“C’mon, now,” Stiles says as he pushes against Derek’s body, sweaty skin slicking against his own. “Where’s the sense in killing you, when I’m nowhere near done with you?”

Derek kisses him deeply and bites his lower lip, hard and sharp how Stiles likes it. He sucks at it for a bit, distracted with how warm and slick it feels in his mouth. He lets it go with a pop, leaning back to admire his work with a grin. It feels good, seeing Stiles’ eyes droop with lust and know he’s the one who put that look on his face. It makes him feel in control and confident in a way he’s never managed to feel before. Someone giggles from around the corner of the building, a couple coming from the lawn, and startles Derek out of his reverie. Traipsing away from their corner, Derek and Stiles laugh and run back to the lawn. Derek’s lungs push out against his chest and he feels full, warm and buzzing with affection. He goes in to grasp Stiles’ hand but Stiles drops it after a quick squeeze, slips away and into a throng of people. Derek watches him go and then walks away in the opposite direction, stomach tight and throat dry.

* * *

Hours later, Stiles slips Derek’s tally card from his back pocket and chuckles when he notices it’s blank. Derek hadn’t even noticed when Stiles took it from his back pocket, so caught up in the moment. There are three lines at the top, next to the words ‘ _Organizations of Interest’._ He takes a pen from Travis and pencils in  _Phi Delta Psi, Beta Nu Zeta,_ and debates a third. A loud bray of laughter catches his attention and he sees Aiden with one arm around Cora and the other slapping Derek on the shoulder. The sight has him huffing and he writes down  _Lambda Chi Omega_ because it’s the first table he sees.

“Why do you have a tally card?” Danny asks. The resigned disappointment on his face tells Stiles he already knows, but he’s doing Stiles the courtesy of at least hearing him out first.

“Why are you on my dick?” Stiles responds, scribbling in Derek’s information on the card.

“Stiles,” Danny’s eyebrows match his tone. Stiles doesn’t know how he does that. “Why do you have, what I assume, is Derek’s tally card?" 

The cards are essentially declarations of intent, the first step in actually joining any organization. Derek looks cozy, bumbling through chats with various people Cora shoves at him. As if noticing Stiles’ eye son him, he glances up and meets Stiles’ gaze. The small smile on his face slips into something anxious. Stiles looks away.

Stiles folds the cardstock in half, the creases soft with sweat from his palms, and passes it in to a guy in a Lambda Chi tank and neon green sunglasses. “Do me a favor, uh—Matt, right?”

The guy grins and blushes. Actually blushes, a full-blown pink (the flush looks uncomfortable on the guy’s face, not warm and soft like it does on—Stiles stops the train of thought, winces at the effort it takes).

“I thought I remembered you,” Stiles smiles sweetly. He does remember him slightly although the memory is fuzzy and only there in patches. A blue comforter and sips of Jäeger, falling into a pool…and that’s about it. “Could you do me a favor? Make sure Derek Hale gets limited interest from Alpha Sigma Chi. The bros in the chapter are scalping our future recruits and being general tools: you know how it is.”

Matt nods firmly and glances at the card, “Isn’t he Cora Hale’s brother? Why isn’t he interested in Alpha Sig?”

“Sibling rivalry?” Stiles guesses. He plays with the hem of Matt’s tank top, brushing a practiced index finger across the hairs above his waistband. There’s a sharp gasp and a strangled humming sound. _Goddamn_ , Stiles is good.

Matt nods dreamily, question forgotten, and stumbles back towards a podium set up near the peak of the lawn. Stiles feel sthe stare on his neck and turns around in time to see the tight set of Derek’s shoulders, the shake of his head. It’s evening now, the dusky blues and oranges of sunset seeping into Stiles’ body. He feels loose and woolly, almost. Like his body’s made of the same feeling his drink feels in his throat. It’s his favorite part of Spring; he feels alive and warm after a cool winter. But the way Derek’s refusing to look back at him sours the night on his tongue.

Danny interrupts his downward slide into guilty introspection. “What do you think you’re doing, Stiles?” 

“We’re supposed to get Derek into our fraternity, Daniel,” Stiles explains. Out of patience and exasperated, he throws up his hands. “Am I the only one who is trying to make this ridiculous plan work?”

Truth be told, Danny looks just as fed up when he replies with a curt, “Yes.”

 _Well, then._ Stiles snorts, “I put in marks on the card for Lambda Chi and Beta Nu. He’ll be stoked Phi Delt’s interested, trust me.”

“I’m sure he’ll be stoked you used getting him off as an excuse to manipulate him. Ecstatic, in fact.”

Stiles grimaces, reaches for another drink. He’s been trying not to think about what Derek’s thinking. It hasn’t been working out well. The more he sees Derek, the more attached he gets. Stiles dares anyone to see Derek, sex-flushed and rumpled with sweat, in the throes of orgasm and _not_ get attached. He’s not blind; he knows what Derek looks like. He’s handsome, in a weird wholesome, friendly neighbor kind of way (Stiles has slept with his neighbors- it’s a fitting analogy in his head). It’s just, now, he getting to know Derek too. He knows things that make him laugh, the sounds he makes when he’s overwhelmed, his class schedule. Those are intimate things, right? And it’s not feelings he’s opposed to. Or really, even feelings for Derek. But—there’s just something about being with someone open and warm and good that sets his teeth on edge. The fact Derek is Cora Hale’s brother is just the cherry on fucking top of the shit sundae.

Stiles sees Derek say something to Aiden out of the corner of his eye and then loses him when he disappears from view. Stiles curses inwardly. He needs to keep an eye on Derek. He can’t have Derek actually getting sociable and charming important, popular meatheads in other fraternities. It’s not possessiveness, it’s not. It’s just a cautious vigilance on Stiles’ end. Still, every minute Derek’s has Stiles’ anxiety growing until he’s anxious. The corner of his right thumb has started to bleed because he keeps picking at it. He sucks it into his mouth and shrugs off the concerned glances Danny keeps shooting him.

“We both got off, you know,” he tells Danny, distractedly. “We both always get off. And I’m just helping him out. I know Matt and Stephen. They’re good guys and they’ll make sure Derek has fun at Orientation and at mixers. No one will fuck with him; he’ll go through initiation with half the bullshit we had to put up with.”

Stiles knows he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. He blames it on the earnest disappointment on Danny’s face because it’s _unnerving._ Danny knows, too, if the smirk on his face is any indication. Before he can huff something childish at him, Derek is walking over and—oh. He looks really mad, actually. Oh, boy.

“Hey, Derek. We were just talking about you.”

“Stiles. I need to speak with you,” Derek mumbles. “In private. _Now_.”

Danny sighs and throws his hands up. “Fuck it. I give up. No one’s at the house, so you might as well just take him there. I’m getting shitfaced and laid. Oi, Travis!”

He stalks off and leaves Stiles alone with a red-faced, obviously pissed Derek. It looks like Derek wants to say something or maybe, punch him in the face. The way he chews on the inside of his cheek and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Stiles waits for _something_ : a word and scream, hell he’d take that punch to his jaw now. Derek doesn’t do anything. Stiles gulps down his drink and throws it on a nearby table, winces at the taste. Emboldened, he grabs Derek’s hand. He’s surprised when Derek yanks it back.

“Okay, yeah. We’re going to go talk,” Stiles sighs.

He leads Derek across the lawn and into the Phi Delt house. When they get to the top floor, he takes out his keys and unlocks the door to his and Scott’s room. He lets Derek in and prays they can get the talking over with. He’s horny and buzzed, and Derek’s legs in those cargo pants are kind of working for him.

* * *

"I don't get how this is a big deal!" Stiles tangles his fingers in his hair as he speaks. "It's a stupid piece of paper. Just show up to the parties you're supposed to go to and then you'll be a Phi Delt."

Derek shoots him a glare.

“ _Supposed_ to go to? According to whom? You?” he scoffs at the suggestion.

Stiles paces across the room, his legs moving in stiff jerky motions. His shoulders are hunched and his face looks angry and hurt. Cagey and defensive. He's been tense since Derek started talking. _As if he has any right to be_ , Derek almost says out loud. _Derek_ had been the one embarrassed when he realized Stiles took his tally card. He tried giving him the benefit of the doubt, thinking maybe he’d lost it when they were… _earlier_. When he’d been _busy_. With _Stiles_. He’d walked to get another one, but a rush advisor had been quick to remind him that every pledge was allowed only one tally, seeing as they’d already received the interest tear-away part of his card. Next thing he knew, he was being blocked from Aiden’s group and ushered in the direction of groups of strangers he’d never met before. As much as he tried, he couldn’t make his way back to Cora and the guys Isaac had introduced him to. Derek figured it out pretty quick after that.

He’d stomped over to find Stiles and yell at him or something. Now he knows what was up with the aggressive ass-fondling when they hooked up earlier. He’d basically given Stiles the opportunity, just happy to get his hands on him. And then Stiles had actually enlisted people to separate him from Aiden and Cora. He’s putting two and two together now. So far, he knows Stiles and Cora hate each other. He knows Aiden—and by extension his fraternity—are not particularly fond of Stiles or the Phi Delts. With the exception of Scott and some guy named Danny. Whatever is going on, he feels caught in the middle. He’s tired of being treated like a child. He’s older than everyone he knows and he feels coddled, suffocated.

He’s doing an okay job of calming down until he sees the dubious look on Stiles’ face, paired with the nonchalance of his body language. He looks bored, all of a sudden. Derek uncrosses his arms and slams a fist against the desk. He’s not usually one to get physical, at all. He gets angry, sure. But right now he feels like a full cup, brimming over with embarrassment and hurt. Fury coils in his palms and has him slamming a hand down on the hard wood. He recoils at the contact and inhales shakily.

"I don't give a shit about your fucking fraternity!" Derek blurts.

It's the first time he's used the word since he was a teenager, sixteen and loud-mouthed. He'd heard Aaron swear all the time, but never dared say a word. But then Car had snuck into his room, broken off a piece from the stereoscopic microscope he’d saved up for _years_ to buy. Typical middle child, Derek was the rule follower and policeman of his siblings. The anger he’d felt then burned in his throat until he’d unleashed a verbal tirade that gave even his Uncle Peter pause. The ensuing shame and fury he'd felt then are absent now, but he has a moment of shock at his own outburst.

Stiles looks similarly taken aback. The hurt on his face transforms into a small grin. He looks almost pleased.

"Wow," he holds out the 'o' in a way that is just so…ugh, _irritating_. "Look at you go, big man. Using swear words and everything. I think you just turned into a real boy."

Derek wants to throttle him.

"Shut up," he says instead.

Stiles opens his mouth to say something smart, no doubt but Derek stalks forward to push him into the wall. Stiles' back hits it with a thud and he grimaces as his shoulder catches the doorframe. Derek's face is inches away from Stiles' but he’s not going to let it distract him.

"You don't tell me what to do," he says quietly, surprised at how calm and serious he comes across. "Cora can do whatever she wants. Isaac. Boyd. I don't care. But _not._ _You_. You don't get to do that to me."

Stiles smirks, "I thought you liked it when I told you what to do, Derek."

"Just because I—just 'cause we're _involved,_ " his molars grind when Stiles' smirk widens into a smile, "doesn't mean you get to have a say in what I do."

" _Involved_? What exactly do you think is going on here?" Stiles points back and forth between their bodies. He shoves at Derek, trying to make a point. "I'm not your boyfriend. I want you in my frat to piss off your sister and her Neanderthal boy toy. You want your sister to stop treating you like shit. Somewhere in there, we’re hot for each other and I’m not one to turn away from the promise of shared orgasms. What's there to be upset about?"

Derek shoves him away petulantly. There it is. He’s a toy in another one of Stiles’ games. Cora’s voice rings in his head, ‘ _He will chew you up and spit you out_.’

 _Damned it_ , he thinks. He's not _upset_ , he's angry. He's angry with Cora, who doesn't trust him to take care of himself; who bullies him into doing what she thinks is best. He's angry with Boyd, who still won't talk to him and actually goes out of his way to avoid him. He's angry with himself for being attracted to someone like Stiles: shallow and unstable. How has he managed to get himself involved with someone as beautiful as he is reckless? He's angry at Stiles, too. That’s he’s manipulating him into this stupid thing just to impress his fraternity brothers. For thinking he can treat him like some nobody and still have him come back for more. He's angry he's letting it happen.

"I don't want to be your boyfriend," he spits the words out even though they taste bitter and untrue. "I know enough about you that I don’t want that from you. But I like you. You let me make my own choices. You don't care if I'm Derek Hale, weird middle kid. Derek Hale: mathlete and Environmental Biology major. I’m just a person."

Stiles drops his shoulders, but he still looks wary. He drops to lean against the door, his back a tense line and arms still crossed. He bites at the skin on his thumb and doesn't say a word.

"Maybe it's because you don't give a shit about me. You don't care what I do as long as you get off. Maybe this is a huge game to you and I’m just something to throw in Cora’s face. Who knows?”

Derek steps farther away from Stiles and drops his hands back into his pockets. There, he won’t be tempted to wrap them around Stiles’ neck. Or any other part of him, for that matter. 

“What I do know is that you have a hundred other numbers you could call. I know you could have someone better looking and more experienced at your knees instead of me. But you still call me. And you let me be whoever or whatever I want; you let me do what I want. You give me the choice and I like that. Don't ruin it by thinking I'm something you can use. I'm not yours, remember?" 

Stiles physically wilts when he's finished speaking. He looks at Derek, contemplative. Derek doesn’t know where this side of him is coming from. He’s usually so reserved and soft-spoken, but Stiles drives him up the wall. It’s not as clichéd as something like Stiles lights a fire in him. There’s just something about him that makes Derek want to set fire to something else; destroy something because he can. Derek has never felt so out of control in his life and he’s finding out he kind of likes the feeling.

Stiles nods his head once and then proceeds to slip off his shirt. He’s so violent about it that it catches at his ears and nose as it comes off his head. They’re pink and irritated when his face finally pops back out. Bare-chested and ruddy-cheeked, he looks surer of himself. He's looser and sharper in the low light of the lamp on the desk. No longer cagey and coiled tight. Derek wonders at the transformation. He thinks about how Stiles is the only person he's ever met who wears his naked skin like armor and who fights his battles by stripping himself bare.

"Use _me_ then," Stiles says as he unzips his pants.

"Stiles—"

The kiss that shuts him up is hot and wet. Derek loves every second of it. The spit on his lower lip is cold when Stiles’ breath blows out softly. Derek tries not to use purple prose in his inner monologues, especially when he thinks of Stiles, but he’ll be damned if Stiles is anything less than beautiful. The shadows on his face look like pools of ink and Derek wants to drown.

"This is me not ruining it,” Stiles whispers into a kiss on Derek’s cheek. “C'mon, baby. Let's not ruin anything, together."

It’s a line. And since this is Stiles, it’s probably a weak one. He called him baby, for cripes’ sake. 

It works anyway.

He’s undressing even as he thinks of it. Derek thinks, as hands fumble on buttons and zippers and sleeves, how much they could ruin each other. With their hands like hammers and mouths like bombs, Stiles and Derek could make such a mess. When he’s finally naked, he lets Stiles tip him back onto the bed. Derek falls apart under Stiles’ body and wonders when he’ll start to regret this.

* * *

Cora eyes the baseball field warily. She’s scanning the players running drills, looking for a familiar face or the telltale gangly-limbed body she’s started watching out for while walking around campus. She hates the vigilance that’s become part of her routine, head turning every time she sees a flash of cropped auburn hair or hears Stiles’ name. There’s a cough from behind her and when she doesn’t immediately turn around, the sound of someone clearing their throat.

There’s already a smile on his face. “Fancy seeing you here,” Stiles greets warmly.

She rolls her eyes at him, but sits down on the bleachers. Stiles rolls back and forth on the balls of his feet for a moment and eventually takes the hint, sitting down beside her. She catches the, frankly, violent looking hickey in the center of his throat and immediately knows why Derek took off early last night. There’s a tense silence between them and Cora keeps it up for a minute or two, just until Stiles starts cracking his knuckles.

“Whatever you’re doing with my brother,” she says icily, eyes still on the boys running around in the red dirt of the field, “it needs to stop. Now.”

She doesn’t need to look at Stiles to know he’s smirking from his seat beside her. Cora hates boys like Stiles. Entitled, manipulative, self-righteous man-children; they’re dime a dozen here on campus. Cora knows there’s a little bit of hypocrisy there, considering who she’s “dating”. But that’s a different story. She’s not attracted to Aiden, not genuinely. He’s handsome and charming when he wants to be; well-connected and popular enough that it’s beneficial to know him, essential to be in his inner circle. It’s a _quid pro quo_ : Cora has an in with higher ups in CPA council and in high-tiered organizations, Aiden gets a pretty pre-law undergrad on his arm. Cora has big plans for herself and a desire to succeed—by any means possible. What’s a little posturing and acting, really? Aiden is under no illusions. He’s smarter than he looks.

Stiles, on the other hand, has no excuses. She remembers what happened at Welcome Back, the way his eyes followed girls around the party. Bea, her Delta Zeta sister and future Big, had been clear about boys like Stiles; had made it clear to Cora that boys like Stiles were stepping stones, pawns wearing backwards-caps on a chessboard. Cora turns to look at him, really drive the point home, and is surprised when she sees the amused shock on his face.

“C’mon,” she addresses the slack-mouthed confusion with derision. “I may be a sorority girl, but I’m not an idiot. I know you’re hooking up with him. I know you must be fucking with him somehow.”

Stiles turns towards her, straddling the bench to give her his full attention. “Why do I have to be fucking _with_ him to be _fucking him_?” He sounds venomous and the question sinks into her bones.

“That’s not what I meant, Stilinski. Stop turning this around on me,” she’s spit. Cora winces, knowing how defensive she sounds, knowing he’s already made his point.

“I think that’s exactly what you meant. You all treat him like he’s this piece that doesn’t fit. You baby him, order him around- and he’s a grown man. It’s exhausting just to watch. I mean, you’re his family, his friends: and you all treat him like shit. Jesus, no wonder he has half the issues he does,” Stiles wonders. There’s a little too much perception there, Cora thinks. A little too much personal insight into _Derek_ ’ _s_ mind than Cora is comfortable with. Whatever Derek has told him, it’s too intimate for the likes of Stiles Stilinski and she’s _not_ having it. “I’m not fucking with him, not anymore. I’m just treating him like a normal person.” 

To say Cora’s taken aback by Stiles’ rant is an understatement. She doesn’t like the way Stiles makes her feel guilty, like she’s dirty and wrong. She doesn’t like the way the accusations sit heavy like coins in her coffers. It’s not _her_ fault Derek is the way he is. He’s always been different: more serious, introverted, quieter. Laura wasn’t the type to coddle or pander to him, letting him deal with his issues however Derek needed to. But as Cora got older, she felt compelled to do things for Derek. Whenever he had a hard time making friends, she’d intimidate people she knew into inviting Derek to parties or to lunch. Davis is a small town, small enough where everyone knew the Hales and that awkward loner-kid, Derek. Eventually, Derek stopped protesting; he let Cora do whatever she wanted without a fight. It’s not _her_ fault he’s the way he is, is it?

“I didn’t come here to talk about my relationship with my brother. I came here to talk to you about yours,” Cora says quietly after a moment of silence. “I know you don’t like him the same way he likes you, so don’t even try to lie to me about it. Stop messing around with him. We both know you have plenty of other pickings to choose from, so please just choose someone else.”

“Although, I do appreciate the ‘please’ this time,” Stiles’ condescension sets Cora on edge, “Maybe I like Derek.”

When Cora raises an eyebrow, he shrugs like the suggestion is a normal thing to say. 

“Bullshit.”

“Maybe I like being around him. Is that so impossible to believe?”

“You don’t like anyone except yourself, Stilinski.”

“Not true. I like plenty of people. I’d even go as far as to say I like Derek. He’s funny, he’s sweet, he’s smart. I’d also venture to say he’s a great lay,” the smile he shoots at Cora makes her mouth taste like ash.

“Maybe you’re right, though. It could be I just like taking things away from you,” he tells her. “Maybe I will do exactly to your brother, what you did to me.”

Cora goes cold, her spine a straight line where she sits on the bleacher. Stiles is sprawled out on the bleacher behind him now, legs apart and elbows resting on the sun-warmed metal. He’s the picture of nonchalance: limbs loose and soft smile curling his lips upward. Objectively, he’s beautiful. But so are some snakes. Cora gets up from her seat and comes to stand in front of Stiles. She leans into him, hands gripped on the metal seat, just beside his elbows.

When she speaks, her voice is hushed and angry. She focuses on enunciating every word, trying to control herself. “Leave him out of this,” she says, tries not to sound too much like she’s pleading. “My mistakes and my business are mine, not Derek’s.”

He looks away, eyes narrowed at something in the distance. “I’ll see you around Cora,” he tells her, though the smile has slipped from his face. He slips out from under her and slinks his way back onto the field. 

 _Snake_ , Cora thinks.

* * *

Stiles has been at this party for two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes of drinking subpar liquor and distractedly flirting with people he’s not attracted to. Matt has made four passes at him, each one growing less sheepish and more frustrated. Lambda Chi put on some of UCBH’s most raucous parties: Stiles has streaked, swung off a chandelier, and smoked a bowl with some actor from the CW. All at Lambda Chi parties. But he’s so bored out of his mind, he’s thinking of leaving and seeing what Derek’s up to. He’s not here, surprisingly. “He’s  _supposed_ to be,” Stiles mutters.

“Can I get you another drink?” Matt asks. Again.

Well, it’s either he goes home alone or drinks himself into being attracted to the guy he owes a favor to.

“Sure, Max,” Stiles tell him.

Matt hands him a cup and mumbles under his breath, “It’s _Matt_. With two ‘t’s.”

Well, ‘Matt with two ‘t’s’ makes horrible drinks. Stiles grimaces through chugging down the Jäeger and Monster abomination he was handed. Some drinks taste better if you drink them all at once but this is not one of them.

“So, uh,” Matt is picking at the label of his beer bottle.

Stiles doesn’t have the patience or enough interest in waiting for him to find his confidence.

“Want to fuck?” 

Matt nods dumbly and Stiles leads the way upstairs to a room on the upper floor. Matt doesn’t try to make small talk or try to hold his hand. Once the door is open, Stiles walks in and waits for Matt to start undressing before he locks the door. He takes off his own clothes without really thinking about it.

“So how do you want to do this?” Matt asks, drumming his fingers on his stomach. Objectively, it’s a nice stomach. 

Stiles shrugs. “Do you bottom or top?”

“Um, I like bottoming. Is that okay? I mean, I know you usually—” 

“That’s fine,” Stiles shuts him up with a sloppy kiss. He’s not buzzed enough to stomach listening to whatever Matt thinks he knows about Stiles. 

He pushes Matt on the mattress and presses quick, wet kisses onto his shoulders and back. It feels too intimate after more than a minute or two, so Stiles reaches into his pants and slides out the condom and packet of lube from his back pocket. _I’m just off my game_ , Stiles thinks. That’s why he’s not into it, why it feels like he’s not really even there. The hands smoothing lube over fingertips aren’t his. The body covering Matt’s isn’t his, either. His body moves from muscle memory: hips pistoning on auto-pilot and legs moving him forward on their own. Matt’s heavy breathing and groans barely register. Stiles keeps moving, nothing really registering past the sweat he feels on his stomach and the cool air on his neck. There’s a whining and Stiles realizes Matt’s oversensitive, squirming underneath him.

“Are you _nngh_ close?” Matt pants.

Stiles has never had to fake an orgasm before. But he’s debating it. He hums an affirmative into Matt’s shoulder blades and tries to think of something arousing, eyes clenched shut and teeth grinding. He’s picturing faceless bodies and memories of past hookups, sensations and ghosts of touches. Then, it’s like an influx of Derek hits him. He’s thinking of Derek, naked and hot in his hands, shivering on his bed sheets. He’s remembering the hookups in the lab, hands and mouths meeting and missing. He groans and actually manages to come, back arching and arms twitching from holding him up for so long. 

He collapses on the bed next to Matt. As he catches his breath, he contemplates what the fuck just happened. Matt is breathing heavy next to him and Stiles needs to be out of the room. He ties off the condom and tosses it in the direction of the trashcan. Grabbing his pants off the floor, he looks over and sees Matt is dead asleep. Grabbing a shirt from the dresser, he wipes his face and the slick and sweat off his inner thighs. He dresses and takes off, walking back downstairs. He picks up a full cup of something blue and chugs it down. When he can’t feel anything, he finds a couple more cups and drinks those too. The burn wakes him up a little and grounds him; the tremor in his hands stop and Stiles needs to make a call.

His phone is in his hands and he’s dialing before he can think about what he’s doing. “Pick up, pick up,” he mutters into the ringing.

“Hullo?” a sleepy voice answer.

“Derek? Are you, uh, busy?” he asks. His lip has started to bleed from where he’s been biting it.

There’s the rustling of sheets and mumbling from someone. Stiles licks blood off his lips. He doesn’t care if Derek has someone there. He doesn’t. The ten-story drop he feels in his gut is from the shitty booze and the weird sex. Absolutely. That’s what it is.

“Stiles? It’s like 2 in the morning. Not that I don’t love blowjobs after 9 p.m., but it’s a little late,” Derek sounds grumpy and half-asleep. It’s doing more for Stiles than anything Matt could ever try to do.

“I had sex with someone,” Stiles pants. “It was really weird and kind of bad. I’m drunk at this party and you’re not here. I had weird, bad sex and I couldn’t get off without thinking of you. Can you come pick me up?”

Maybe it’s the booze that has Stiles rambling into the phone, spilling the slick, liquid honesty off his tongue. Maybe it’s the pills he took half an hour ago, finally working in his system and shooting off truths like bullets. Or maybe Stiles is just hoping Derek shoots him down, leaves him to crash and burn in the arms of faceless Matts for the rest of his life. 

“Wow, okay,” Derek finally mumbles. There’s more rustling and then the jingling of keys. “Where are you?”

Stiles closes the front door, finally aware he’s been walking this whole time. He continues walking down the driveway and up the street, ignoring the shouts and general noise coming from the house behind him.

“Was that a door? Are you moving? Stiles!” Derek barks at him. Stiles giggles and sways, head suddenly heavy. “Stop laughing, Stiles. I need you to pay attention to me, please. Where are you?”

It’s the pleading that does it. Stiles stops and plops down on the sidewalk. He breathes deeply, listening to Derek start his car over the line. Derek’s coming and he needs to stop moving.

“You were supposed to be here,” Stiles mutters, accusing and pouty. He picks at the scabs on his hands, at the hangnails he always chews on during Physics.

Derek sighs, “I had stuff to do.”

“You’re always supposed to be here,” Stiles argues. It’s hard to argue with someone when they sound so resigned. 

“You’re at a party, right? Stiles, which party are you at?” Derek asks, quiet and tired. Stiles can hear the puttering of his car and the sound of the radio. He likes that song.

“Hey, I like that song,” he lets Derek know. He has to tell Derek about that song; his mother liked that song. “It sounds different, but I like that song.”

Bright lights come from his right and he holds up the hand not holding his phone, squints through his fingers at the oncoming car. It idles for a bit and then turns off, parked along the curb across from him. It’s only then Stiles realizes the phone call’s ended, his cheek having pressed the end button. His face is too warm and he sniffs wetly, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. _Definitely the pills_ , he thinks to himself.

“D’rek?” he hiccups. He licks the salt from his lips, eyes still squinting even though the lights from the car have shut off. “I think I’m drunk.” 

Derek gets out of the car, wearing flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt. He feet are bare and it makes Stiles sad. Derek shouldn’t ever have to walk on gravel at two in the morning for someone who has sex with other people and thinks of Derek and gets drunk on bad liquor to feel better about it. Derek shouldn’t be barefoot; he should be asleep and warm next to someone in his bed. Derek is so good, so—

Derek slaps his hand over Stiles’ mouth. “Stiles, stop talking,” he says, eyes wide and concerned. “Please.”

Stiles chokes on a sob and nods his head. He wants to do whatever Derek says, wants to say he’s sorry for being so mean to him. He’s always so mean to people; he deserves to have people like Cora Hale hate him. He deserves to have his dad hate him. And Derek should hate him, too. Everyone should hate Stiles as much as Stiles hates Stiles, sometimes.

“I need you to calm down, okay?” Derek’s whispering in his ear, “I need you to breathe and calm down. I’m right here.” Derek crouches down in front of him, pulling Stiles into his chest, and waits for Stiles to acknowledge him. Stiles rests his forehead on Derek’s chest, looking down at the black asphalt. He sees Derek’s toes and hiccups. He nods and manages a shaky inhale. 

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers. Stiles hates crying in front of other people. Crying in general makes him incredibly uncomfortable, but in front of an audience? Stiles shudders in discomfort. “I’m kind of fucked up right now.”

Derek nods against him and chuckles, a little hysterical. “Yeah, a little bit,” he agrees.

It makes Stiles giggle and Stiles feels so grateful. “Thank you for coming to get me.” 

“You’re welcome,” Derek murmurs, pressing his lips to Stiles’ head in a quick kiss.

When the world becomes a little less awful and Stiles stops feeling like he’s about to shake apart, he lets Derek help him up and over to the car. The song from the phone call starts up again and Stiles is breathing in time with the music. It’s so sad and so pretty, but Stiles really likes it. Derek starts it over once it ends and hums along while Stiles presses his face against the window. The streetlights blur together, a flipbook set to the music from Derek’s stereo, and then Derek is opening the passenger door in a parking lot. He hefts Stiles onto his shoulder and stumbles them both into the dorm, Stiles humming the whole way to Derek’s door.

Once inside, Stiles pulls off his shoes and clothes on his way to the nearest bed. Derek hoists him up the ladder onto the lofted mattress and Stiles lands with a groan. The air in the room is cold and Stiles’ eye are blurring with the pain in his head. There’s a muffled conversation taking place and then hands are turning Stiles onto his side, a warm body sliding next to him. Stiles fumbles around until he finds Derek’s hand, fingers catching at Derek’s. He falls asleep spooned under Derek’s body, his body pinned to Earth by Derek’s own gravity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see any glaring errors, don't hesitate to let me know. Find me on tumblr for any pressing concerns or to just say hi.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: please do not base your views of Panhellenic organizations off of this fic. This is a work of fiction and the portrayal of Greek life in this fic is not an accurate one. It is simply portrayed that way for the sake of the plot. Fraternities and sororities are actually great organizations (for the most part) that really do foster a sense of brother/sisterhood and community. Do no let this story change/influence the way you view Greek Life organizations. Thanks!
> 
> Find me on tumblr if you would like.  
> Personal: anaisnt  
> Fandom: isntafan


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